Page 72 of The Courtship Dance

Suppressing a sigh, Francesca instructed Fenton to send the woman in. She turned back to Sinclair, saying in a low tone, “I am so sorry.”

He shook his head, giving her a crooked little smile, and said, “I will wait.”

Francesca turned back to smile at the woman entering the room. She hoped that there was nothing in her face to reveal what she had been doing before Mrs. Wilberforce arrived. Certainly, her pulse was still thundering, and she dared not look over at the duke.

Fortunately, Rochford knew Mrs. Wilberforce’s husband, who hailed from a town near the duke’s property in Cornwall, and he was able to engage her for a few minutes in a conversation about the man. After that, it was slow going. For once Francesca was unable to summon up the usual social chatter to aid her. All she could think of was her desire for the woman to leave and allow her to be alone with Sinclair.

When she left, Francesca thought, she would tell Fenton that she was no longer receiving visitors. However, she was not sure what excuse she could make for Sinclair’s continued presence. By the rules of polite behavior, of course, he should leave before Mrs. Wilberforce. He had already been here longer than was customary for an afternoon call. She wondered if Mrs. Wilberforce would notice or would be too overawed by talking to a duke to even be aware that he had made a social misstep.

Finally, surprising her, Sinclair rose, saying that he must take his leave of them. It was all Francesca could do not to utter a protest. She managed a brittle smile, however, and gave him her hand.

“It was so good of you to come,” she told him stiffly.

He smiled. “I hope to return soon.”

Her eyes flew up to his at his words, and she saw a smile lurking in their dark depths. “Oh. Well, yes, please do. I should like very much to show you my garden.”

He grinned. “I am sure it is beautiful. Good day, Lady Haughston.”

“Duke.”

She waited out the rest of Mrs. Wilberforce’s visit with a barely concealed frustration. The woman chattered on at length about the duke’s graciousness and pleasant manner, his lack of arrogance, his handsome looks, until Francesca was ready to scream. Instead she smiled and nodded like an automaton, but offered few words of her own; the last thing she wanted was to lengthen the conversation.

As soon as Mrs. Wilberforce departed, Francesca slipped down the hallway and out the back door to the small garden behind her house. It was enclosed by walls, but beside her house, leading to the servants’ entrance, was a narrow walkway that ended at the gate into the garden. She made her way to the gate now, hoping that she and Sinclair had understood one another in their leave-taking conversation.

Though it offered no handle on the outside, the garden gate could be opened from within. Francesca lifted the bar now and swung it open. The duke stood just outside, leaning negligently against the wall of the house.

She let out a laugh of sheer delight as he ducked inside, closing the gate behind him, and swept her up into his arms. They kissed, moving in a slow, shuffling circle, and Francesca clung to him, lost in a haze of passion.

Several long minutes passed before Rochford set her back down on her feet, and for a goodly time after that, she was still too dazed to speak. He took her hand and led her deeper into the garden, stopping finally at a bench. It was a lovely spot, sheltered by the garden wall and perfumed by the roses growing in profusion beside it, and Francesca sank down onto it happily, planning to snuggle against his side, his arm curled around her shoulders.

When Sinclair did not sit down beside her, she glanced up at him, puzzled. “Come, sit down with me.” She smiled invitingly, holding out a hand to him.

He shook his head, his face settling into serious lines. “I came here to talk to you, and I find that if I am close to you, I forget all my intentions.”

Francesca’s smile deepened, her long dimple popping into her cheek. “I don’t mind.”

He could not keep from smiling back, but he said, “No. Not this time. I intend to get out what I have to say before someone else interrupts us.”

Francesca sighed. “Very well. Go on.”

He looked at her, started to speak, then stopped, and began again. “I have no facility with this.” He drew a breath. “Lady Haughston…”

“Lady Haughston!” Francesca repeated, starting to laugh. “How did we come to that?” She went cold as she took in the grave look on his face. “Sinclair, what is it? What are you trying to say?”

She was suddenly certain that he was here to tell her that he regretted what had happened the night before, that he could not let her distract him from his purpose of finding a duchess. Her fingers knotted in her lap, and she looked down at them, trying to school herself not to cry.

“Francesca,” he corrected himself. “You must know of my regard for you—of my hope that—Oh, the devil take it! I am asking you to marry me!”

Francesca stared at him, struck silent. Of all the horrid certainties that had flooded in upon her at his serious tone, this had not even occurred to her.

He glanced at her, then let out a low growl. “Bloody hell! I’ve made a complete botch of it.” He dropped down on one knee in front of her. “I am sorry. Francesca, please…” He reached in his pocket and took out a small box, extending it toward her. “Would you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

She found her tongue at last. “No!” She jumped to her feet, staring at him in horror. “Sinclair, no! I cannot marry you!”

His face closed, and he rose to his feet. “Again? You are refusing me again?”

“No! Sinclair, no. Pray do not be angry—”