Page 40 of The Courtship Dance

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.

CHAPTER TEN

FRANCESCA 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 conversations 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.