The Courtship Dance (25 page)

“Of course I love you!” Tears sprang into Francesca’s eyes, and she whirled, jumping off the bed and grabbing the bundle of clothes Sinclair had tossed on the bed earlier. She could not stand naked in front of him and argue. Hastily, she began to throw on the undergarments and the simple frock.

Rochford followed her, shoving his legs into his breeches and pulling them up, buttoning them high
enough to stay on his body as he strode over to Francesca. His eyes were bright with anger and frustration, and color flamed on the high ridge of his cheekbones.

“Then why, in the name of all that is holy, do you refuse to marry me?” he thundered. “Blast it, Francesca, I cannot believe that you are playing a coquette’s game with me.”

“Of course not!” She faced him, her jaw set stubbornly, her hands fisted on her hips. “How can you even think such a thing? If you had but listened yesterday instead of charging off like a wounded bull, I would have explained.”

His brows rushed together, and a light flared in his eyes, and for an instant Francesca thought that he was about to explode into a rage. But he set his jaw and said only, “Explain, then. I will endeavor not to behave like a bull.”

Francesca drew a breath. Now that she had the opportunity, she suddenly found it terribly hard to speak. Tears threatened to clog her throat and fill her eyes. She pushed them back. “I am being reasonable.”

“Reasonable!”

“Yes, reasonable. I am thinking about the future, about
your
future.”

“Unless you hope to see me suffer a long and lonely one, I fail to see how you are thinking of my future,” he retorted.

“You are a duke. You have to marry well.”

“And you are not good enough to be a duchess?” His
brows sailed upward. “I must say, my dear, I have never known you to be so modest.”

“You know that I am not the sort to be a duchess,” Francesca protested. “It is not my lineage at fault. It is me.”

“And how, pray, are you not fit?”

“In so many ways! I am not sober or dignified. I don’t think about important things or read weighty tomes or engage in learned discussions. Gossip and fashion and parties—those are what I know. I am flighty and frivolous. We are horridly unalike. You will be bound to grow tired of me and regret marrying me.”

“Francesca…dearest…for someone who knows so much about love, there are times when you are remarkably obtuse. If I wanted someone exactly like me, I would be quite content living alone. I have no desire to marry a bluestocking or a bore or someone puffed up with pride of family. I promise that I will read all the weighty tomes and think all the deep thoughts that we are required to. And you…” His face softened. “You will give our parties and entrance our friends, win the love of my tenants, and make everyone wonder how I could have caught a jewel such as you. And every day you will fill my eyes with beauty.”

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Believe me, I know a great deal about regret. I have suffered it for fifteen years. I will
not
regret marrying you. Your frivolity, your love of fun, your laughter, your smile—those are some of the things
I find most enchanting about you. I want to laugh. I even want you to stick a pinprick in my pride now and then. Sweet heavens, don’t you realize—you are everything I could want in a wife.”

His words made her heart swell with love. She wanted to give in, to admit that nothing would make her happier than marrying him. But she could not allow herself to do so. She had to be strong.

She pulled away, saying, “I am not young. I am a widow.”

“I care not.” He crossed his arms, facing her.

She stared at him, frustrated. Her throat was tight, and she felt as if it was filling with such anger, such loss, that she might explode at any moment. Finally, as if it had been torn from her, she cried, “I cannot have children!”

Sinclair stared at her. Then he stepped forward, his arms going around her gently and he pulled her to him, cradling her against his chest. “Oh, my God, Francesca…I am so sorry.”

He kissed the top of her head and laid his cheek upon her hair. Francesca melted into him, unable to stand against his tenderness. She let him hold her, leaning on his strength, soaking in his warmth, taking the comfort that had never been offered her by the father of the child she had lost.

Rochford lifted her up and sat down in the chair by the window, holding her in his arms. For a long time they sat that way in silence, his head lowered to hers,
wrapped together in regret and sadness. But finally, with a sigh, Francesca sat up, wiping at her cheeks to remove the tears that had escaped.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

She nodded. “I—I lost a child that I was carrying, and the doctor told me I would probably never have another one. He was right. I never conceived after that.” She gave him a small, glancing smile, and stood up, moving away. “Now you understand.”

“I understand that you have carried a burden of sorrow for years,” he replied carefully, standing up. “But is this why you refuse to marry me?”

“Yes, of course!” Francesca swung to face him. “Do not play dense with me. The Duke of Rochford cannot marry a barren woman. You have to produce heirs. You have a duty, a responsibility to your name, your family.”

“Pray, do not tell me about my duty,” he retorted, his face tight. “I have lived with it all my life. Since I was eighteen, I have done my utmost to live up to the name, to avoid tarnishing or betraying it in any way. Indeed, I have sought to improve it. But I am not going to sacrifice my life on the altar of Rochford. I am more than just the Duke of Rochford. I am Sinclair Lilles. And I will marry as I wish—not for my family, not for the name, not for the estate, but for
me!
You are the woman I want for my wife. You are the one I love.”

Francesca stared at him. “You—you love me?”

He looked back at her, puzzled. “Yes, of course.
Isn’t that what we have been talking about? I love you. I want to marry you.”

Francesca’s knees felt suddenly weak, and she went to the chair and sat down. “I…but—you never said it.”

He gaped at her. “Never said it? I asked you to be my wife. Indeed, I asked you three times! Why else would I ask you?”

“Because my family is old and well-connected. I would be acceptable. You explained all those things to me when you asked me to marry you the first time. You told me how right and agreeable it would be for the two of us to marry. How we knew each other well and our families were—”

“I was trying to convince
you,
” he retorted. “Not myself. I knew I wanted to marry you, and it had nothing to do with your family.”

“You desired me. I understand that. I am aware that my face and form are pleasing to men.”

“You are more than pleasing to me. You always have been. When I saw you dancing at my house that Christmas, your hair up and your skirts down for the first time, I was dazzled. I lost my heart utterly and completely. Francesca…I burn for you. I am like a schoolboy again. Whenever you enter the room, my knees threaten to turn to water.”

“Truly?” Francesca tilted her head, a pleased smile curving her lips. “But when we were engaged, you never—well, you hardly even kissed me.”

He let out a groan. “My God, Francesca! You were
eighteen, barely out of the schoolroom. Did you think I was going to grab you and ravish you?”

“No, of course not, but—I did not think you
loved
me.”

“You are so exasperating, I could shake you. I was trying to play the gentleman, however little I felt like it around you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I lay awake at night, thinking of you, too filled with lust to sleep. I still do.”

“But—that is not love.”

“Desire alone does not last for fifteen years. That is how long I have loved you. No matter how I tried not to, I could not stop. There was no other woman who woke my interest.”

“Do not try to tell me that you have been celibate for fifteen years.”

“No. I will not lie to you. There have been other women, but none that I loved. None I would have married. When you broke it off, I did my best to hate you, and then I tried to forget you. It was like a knife in me every time I walked into a party and saw you there with Haughston. So I stayed away. I spent more time at my estates and less in London. Then Haughston died and I—It is wicked of me, but I admit it, I was filled with happiness the day I heard of his death.”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“What was I to say? You still held a low opinion of me. How was I to convince you that Daphne had lied? After all those years, it seemed an impossible task. And
I—well, sometimes my pride is my own worst enemy. I told myself I would not grovel to you. Your love for me had died years ago. I saw no signs that I could bring it back. We had a sort of friendship. And perhaps…perhaps I was not brave enough to risk breaking my heart again. But this last year, it seemed…easier, I suppose, between us. When you told me Daphne had confessed what she had done, I hoped that you might come to feel differently about me.”

“Then why did you start looking for a wife? Why did you ask me for my help?”

“Sweet Lord, Francesca, what was I supposed to do?” His face contorted with frustration, and he swung away from her, beginning to pace. “You told me that you wanted to make it up to me by finding me a wife! It was clear that you had no feeling for me. But I realized—well, at first I was furious, and I wanted to lash out at you, but then I saw that this was a way to allow me to spend time with you. I thought that I could subtly woo you under the guise of letting you find me a bride.”

“So instead of courting those girls…”

He nodded. “I was trying to court you.”

Francesca could not hold back a little giggle. “What fools we both are.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I think perhaps we are.” He pulled her into his arms. “I love you, Francesca, more than anything or anyone in the world. I want to marry you.”

“But your heir…” She resisted, not leaning into him.

“Blast the heir. My cousin Bertram can inherit, or his sons. And if he manages to produce none, then it will pass to some other distant relative. I will be dead then, anyway, and I do not think I will care. What matters to me are all the years remaining to me…and spending them with you.”

He reached down and tilted up her chin. “Francesca…beloved…you are the only woman I want for my duchess. Will you marry me?”

Francesca looked up at him, and it was a moment before she could speak past the lump in her throat. “Yes, Sinclair. I will marry you.”

T
HEY WERE MARRIED
two days later in Lilles House in London. The ceremony was simple, with no family or friends except Irene and Gideon to witness as the duke slipped the Lilles wedding ring upon her finger.

Rochford had obtained a special license before he had asked her to marry him that day in her garden, and he called in his favor to Lady Mary’s fiancé, Christopher Browning, asking him to marry them posthaste. He had no intention, Rochford told Francesca firmly, of allowing her to slip away again. And Francesca, smiling, had agreed. In truth, she wanted to waste no more time being anything other than his wife.

Afterwards, when their friends had left, Rochford took her hand in his and said, “Come. I have a present for you.”

She laughed as she followed him upstairs. “Another
gift? But you have positively showered me with gifts. All the jewels…the dresses I ordered yesterday from
Mlle.
du Plessis.”

“Those are but a drop in the bucket,” he assured her with a grin. “It is my intention to buy you so many clothes that even you will not be able to wear them all. And slippers. And jewels. We will buy every gown and bauble in Paris on our honeymoon. I have years to make up for, years when I could do nothing, had no right to do anything for you, and I had to stand by and watch as you struggled.”

He led her into his bedroom and across to the small dressing room beyond. Unlocking a door in the wall, he revealed a closet of shelves behind it, many of them filled with jewelry cases. He removed a mahogany jewelry box and carried it out to the bedroom, setting it on a table.

“More jewels?” Francesca laughed. “How many jewels can the Lilleses have?”

“A positively vulgar amount, I assure you,” her husband replied. “However, these are different. They do not belong to the Lilles family. They are yours.”

Intrigued by his words and expression, Francesca pulled open the bottom drawer of the small chest. In it lay a sparkling tiara. Her eyes widened. It was a tiara that had belonged to her grandmother. She had given it to Francesca when she married Lord Haughston. Francesca looked over at Sinclair, her eyes wide.

“I don’t understand.”

He nodded toward the box, and she continued opening the drawers, taking out necklaces and bracelets, earrings and rings…all sorts of jewelry that had once belonged to her. The Haughston parure of emeralds Andrew had presented her with on their wedding day…a brooch of pearls and sapphires that Dom had given her…the pearl necklace from her parents.

“These are the things I sold!” Francesca stared at him. “You—you bought them?”

He nodded. “I saw a necklace once at the jeweler’s and recognized it as one you had worn. I was certain, and I managed to worm the information out of the man. He admitted that your maid had been selling things for you. So I bought it, and I told him to bring everything else you sold him to me.”

“So that is why I was able to get such good prices for them! I thought it was Maisie’s amazing bargaining skills.” Francesca laughed, tears filling her eyes. “I never dreamed that it was you….”

“The gold and silver pieces are downstairs in the butler’s pantry.”

“No! You bought all those, too? You did not need to take those, as well.”

“I doubted that most of them meant much to you, but I wanted to make sure—” He broke off and shrugged.

“That I got the best price for them,” Francesca finished.

“I am sorry. I could not buy your wedding ring back. He told me he had already sold it.”

“It doesn’t matter.
None
of them matter.” She smiled
at him, her face glowing, struggling to hold back the tears in her eyes.