Page 70 of The Courtship Dance

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.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FRANCESCA 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.