The Courtship Dance (19 page)

Desperately, she tried to think of some way to save herself, but her brain skittered about wildly, unable to focus on anything.

Downstairs she heard the sound of a man’s voice, and she knew that Sir Alan must have arrived. He was a good, kind man, and he was a little entranced, even dazzled, by her. If she gave him any encouragement, he would fall in love with her. She could marry him and escape the bleak life before her. She was sure that most women would offer him that encouragement.

But she could not. She could not bring herself to marry a man she did not love simply to make the rest of her life secure.

But what other path was open to her? She had been trying to find a way to escape this mess for over two weeks, and still she had discovered no way out.

She jumped to her feet and began to pace the room, wiping at the tears that streaked her face. Her nerves vibrated wildly, and she could not keep still. In fits and
starts, tears continued to come, and now and then she could not hold back a little hiccuping sob.

In her despair, she could think of nothing. Only one thought penetrated the fog; only one word sent any ease through her:
Sinclair.

She turned and grabbed up the light evening cloak that Maisie had laid out for her. Flinging it around her shoulders, she went out her door and lightly down the stairs. Peering carefully around the corner of the staircase, she was relieved to see that the servants had apparently retreated to the kitchen to discuss the evening’s events.

On tiptoe, she slipped down the last few steps and out the front door, closing it softly behind her. Pulling up the hood of her cloak to hide her face, she hurried off down the street.

A
FOOTMAN IN ELEGANT
blue-and-white livery opened the door. He frowned at the sight of a woman on his doorstep.

“Go on, get away from here! What do you think you’re doing?” he told her bluntly, starting to close the door.

“No!” Francesca cried, holding out a hand to stop him.

She knew that the fellow must take her for a prostitute or some other low creature, and she understood why. No respectable woman would show up on a gentleman’s doorstep like this, certainly not unaccompanied. But she could not let him keep her out.

“Fetch Cranston,” she told him, and the combination of her cultured voice and the use of the butler’s name must have given the man pause, for he hesitated.

“Wait here,” he said finally, closing the door, and a few minutes later the door opened to reveal Rochford’s starched, efficient butler.

Cranston peered out the door at her, his expression full of disdain until she reached up and pushed back her hood far enough that he could see her face. His eyes widened. “My lady!”

“Please, I must see him,” she said in a low voice.

“Of course, of course, please come in. I am so sorry.”

Francesca pulled her hood forward again, not eager to let any of the other servants glimpse her face, and Cranston led her quickly down the hall to Rochford’s study. The room was empty, but the butler ushered her inside and took her cloak.

“I will inform His Grace immediately that you are here,” he assured her, no trace of the curiosity he must feel registering on his carefully blank face.

“Thank you, Cranston.”

He left, closing the door behind him. Francesca turned away. The frantic despair that had sent her flying to Rochford was ebbing now, giving way to doubt.
What would he think of her, coming to him this way?

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the hall outside, and the duke rushed in, frowning. His eyes went to her, taking in at once her tear-streaked face and tense posture.

“Francesca! My God. What happened?” He swung the door shut behind him and came to her, hands outstretched. “Are you ill? Is it Dom? Selbrooke?”

She shook her head. “No, no, it is none of that.”

He took her hands in his, and they felt so warm and strong that tears sprang into her eyes and she let out a single shuddering sob. “I’m sorry! I should not have come here, but I didn’t know what to do!”

“Of course you should come to me,” he told her, leading her over to the small sofa and pulling her down onto it with him. “Where else should you go? Just tell me what is wrong.”

“And you will take care of it for me?” she asked, trying to smile, but she could feel it wobble.

“I will strive my utmost to do so,” he assured her.

Suddenly she was crying. She tried to hold it back; she would have said that she had no tears left to cry. But the kindness in his smile, the concern in his eyes, pierced her, and the tears came flooding out.

“Oh, Sinclair, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—I’m so scared—”

“Francesca, dearest…” He pulled her over and into his lap, cradling her in his arms.

The endearment, the comfort of his embrace, somehow broke her heart, and she sobbed, burying her face in his chest, her hand digging into his lapels. She cried, unable to speak or even think coherently.

He stroked her back and head, his hands knocking loose some of the curls that Maisie had so carefully
arranged. He murmured soft, soothing sounds as his hands moved gently over her. Francesca’s sobs gradually began to wind down. Her breathing slowed, and the tears stopped. She leaned against his chest, comforted by his strong arms around her, the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear.

The movement of his hands was incredibly comforting. She felt, at least for the moment, safe and secure, warmed by his heat. She could believe that nothing bad could ever happen to her here.

Yet, she realized, at the same time his touch stirred something inside her. She closed her eyes, amazed that she could feel such a thing, especially at a time as this. Something brushed against her hair, and she realized, wonderingly, that he must have kissed her.

His hand drifted down her arm. She could feel the brush of his breath against her neck, and then his lips pressed lightly against her skin. Francesca drew a shaky breath, her body flaming to life. Her nipples prickled, hardening and pressing against her dress.

She bent her head down, exposing her neck further to him, and she felt him stiffen, his skin suddenly searing. He pressed his mouth upon the back of her neck, velvety soft upon her skin. His breath rasped harshly in his throat, tickling her flesh, raising goose bumps along her arms, and she shivered.

She wanted to melt into him, to open herself to him. She had never felt this way before—so vulnerable, yet at the same time reveling in that vulnerability. A pulsing
heat began low in her abdomen, and she was aware of an ache deep inside her. She yearned, she realized, for him to lay claim to her, to sink deep inside her. The depth of her desire was so new and different that it startled her into stillness.

He tensed. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Francesca. You came to me for help, and I’ve—”

Rochford gently lifted her and set her from him. She felt bereft and wished that he would take her back into his arms. But she was at least fully enough in possession of her senses to realize that she could not ask that.

He handed her a snowy white handkerchief, and she took it, not looking at him, and stood up, walking away as she dried the tears from her face. Rochford let out a small sigh and rose, too, watching her.

She turned back and found him studying her. A blush started up her throat. “I am sorry.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice was harsh, and he seemed to realize it. He closed his eyes and visibly relaxed. “Francesca…tell me what is troubling you. You said that you were scared. Who has frightened you? What happened?”

She drew a breath, gathering courage. Suddenly the thought that had seized her back home in the midst of her despair no longer seemed so feasible. “I—I came to ask you for a loan.”

He stared at her, dumbstruck.

She hurried on. “I know it is terribly improper, and
I had sworn that I would not ask you, but I can think of no other way, and I cannot bear to think of that man in my house. I must do something!”

“Man! What man? Are you telling me that a man broke in to your home?”

“No, no. He did not break in. It is Perkins.”

“Galen Perkins?” Rochford’s dark eyes were suddenly a little frightening. “Perkins is in your house?”

He started toward the door, and Francesca hurried to grab his hand. “No! No, he isn’t there now. I am telling this all wrong. Please, come back and sit down. Let me begin at the beginning.”

“All right.” He allowed her to lead him back to the small sofa and sat down with her. Her hand was still in his, and he curled his fingers around hers. “Tell me.”

“Lord Haughston—”

“It starts that far back?”

“Yes, it does. Andrew was…imprudent.”

He let out a short, harsh laugh that held no humor. “Lord Haughston was a fool.”

Francesca started to protest, then shrugged. “Yes, he was. You were right about him.” She turned her face away from him, unable to look into his eyes as she went on. “I was an idiot to marry him. You tried to tell me, and I would not listen. I’m sorry.”

She looked at him then and was surprised to see the pain that flashed in his eyes. “It is I who am sorry. I knew it was useless to tell you, with you in the throes of new love, but I had to try. I made a mess of it.”

“I was certain that you warned me against him only because you were…bitter.”

Rochford had come back from his estate after her engagement was announced and had told her in a cold, hard voice that she was making a mistake to marry such a fool as Andrew Haughston. She remembered the pain that had sprung up in her afresh when she saw him, and she knew that it was that pain, more than any love for Andrew, that had made her storm out of the room, refusing to listen to him.

“I
was
bitter,” he admitted with a grimace. “But it did not mean I was not telling you the truth. I handled it poorly. I would have been better served writing you a letter instead of appearing on your doorstep. I could have presented my case more clearly. I fear that I have never been very clearheaded around you. I should have proved to you what sort of man Haughston was—stayed there until you listened to me and believed. But I let my deuced pride rule me.”

Francesca smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh, Sinclair. Pray do not blame yourself. It was my fault and no one else’s that I married the man. I should have been more careful. Should not have rushed into marriage. It was just—I wanted to love him. I wanted to believe that he was the perfect man for me. I was hurt and lonely, and angry at you.”

She looked into his eyes. “You called Andrew a fool, but I was ten times that, hastening to marry because I wanted to prove to you that my heart was not broken.”

He went still, his fingers tightening on hers. Realizing how much she had just revealed, Francesca jumped to her feet and walked away.

“But that is not the point of my story. What is pertinent is that Lord Haughston left me almost nothing when he died. Indeed, he left me with a number of debts to pay. Since he died, I have been barely scraping by.”

“I know,” he told her quietly.

Francesca stared. “You know?” Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Is it common knowledge? Does everyone in the
ton
know?”

“No, no,” he hastened to assure her, rising and crossing to her. “It is only I. I had my suspicions how he might have left you, knowing the way he was. I…made a few discreet inquiries.”

Her embarrassment deepened. All these years, the man from whom she had most wanted to hide her financial problems had known about them. “You must have thought me a terrible fool.”

“No, of course not.”

She sighed. “I suppose it should not matter. You have always known the worst of me.”

A faint smile touched his face and was gone. “True. As you have seen the worst of me.”

His remark brought a smile to her face. “Have I? Then your worst must be a trifling thing.”

“As is yours.”

Her heart warmed within her, and she had to swallow
hard to suppress her emotion. She turned away, clearing her throat and saying, “Well, I learned to economize—you would be most surprised to see me shop.” Looking away from him as she was, she did not see the pain and regret that colored his features. “I have managed to get by. But now Perkins—”

“What the devil does Perkins have to do with anything?”

“He won my house from Andrew in a card game!” Francesca whirled back around, rage rising up in her all anew. “That…
bastard
threw away my home on a hand of cards!”

A red light flared in Rochford’s eyes, and he let out a string of curses. Francesca was not certain whether they were directed at Perkins or her late husband. She knew only that they made her feel strangely better.

“Perkins told me that if I repaid the money Andrew owed him, he would tear up the paper Andrew signed giving him ownership of the house. I have sold what I can, but it is completely beyond my means. But if—”

She swallowed, not daring to look him in the face. What she was asking was completely improper. A woman could not take such a large amount of money from a man without compromising her virtue, and she feared that he would think terribly of her for doing so. For a moment, she thought she could not go on.

Then, in a rush, she said, “If you would but loan it to me, I could give him the money. I would pay it back,
I promise. I will sell the house and that will give me enough money to—”

“You will not sell your house,” Rochford told her flatly.

“It is either that or lease it during the Season, but it would take me years to repay the loan then, and, truly, if I sold it, I could repay you and purchase a smaller house.”

“You are not leasing it. You are not selling it. And there will be no loan.”

Francesca turned to stare at him, her stomach clenching in despair.

The duke’s face was so stony, his eyes so flat and cold, that any words she might have spoken died. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that bloody ivory-turner have your house. Cranston will call the carriage and send you home.” He started toward the door.

“Rochford! What are you doing?” Anxiously, Francesca started after him.