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.
She lost the thread of the conversation so many times that one of her callers asked her if she was feeling unwell, and a later one gave her an icy look when she left. Then the Duke of Rochford came to call.
Fenton announced him as she was sitting in her drawing room with Lady Feringham and her daughter. Francesca’s heart leaped into her throat, and she jumped to her feet before she realized what she had done. Gravely, trying to look as if she rose for every visitor, she bowed her head to the butler, saying, “Please, show him in.”
She dared not glance at Lady Feringham or her daughter as she braced herself to see Sinclair again. She must not let anything of what had happened between the two of them show in her face. Discretion, after all, must be her watchword.
Rochford walked into the room after the butler, and Francesca saw the flicker of dismay on his face when he noticed her other visitors. He checked at the doorway before continuing into the room and bowing to her.
“Lady Haughston.”
“Rochford. How very pleasant to see you,” she greeted him, her voice carefully even. Her cheeks were a little warm, and she hoped that she was not blushing—at least not deeply enough that the others would notice.
She extended her hand to him. She wanted desperately to feel his touch, yet she knew that she must not allow any of that to be seen on her face. His fingers closed around hers, and she felt him squeeze briefly before he released her hand. She allowed herself one glance up into his eyes; it was all she could do to tear her own eyes away.
She gave a bright, general smile and gestured vaguely toward one of the chairs. “Do sit down. You know Lady Feringham and her daughter, Lady Cottwell, I believe.”
“Yes, of course.” Rochford bowed to the other women and greeted them politely while Francesca sat down and sought to gather her composure around her.
It was absurd, she told herself, that all she could think about right now was the way Rochford had looked looming above her, his skin slick with sweat, his breath ragged, his eyes black as the pit, as he plunged into her.
She slipped out her handkerchief and dabbed surreptitiously at her face. Was anyone else looking heated, or was it just her? She wondered if it would appear odd if she called for Fenton to open another of the windows.
The room was silent, and Francesca glanced around, realizing that something was amiss. From the expectant looks on the others’ faces, she knew that they were waiting for some response from her.
“I—I beg your pardon. I fear my mind, um, wandered for a bit. I was thinking that it seemed a bit warm. Shall I have a window opened?”
“Oh, no, it’s quite pleasant,” the younger visitor assured her. “I had just asked you whether you enjoyed Lady Smythe-Fulton’s rout last week. I found it such a crush, I confess.”
“Indeed. But is that not the goal of a rout?” Francesca asked with a smile, doing her best to recall anything about the party. That was not where she had watched Rochford talk to Mary Calderwood, was it? No, surely that had been the Haversley soiree. She could remember almost nothing of that evening except with whom the duke had chatted and the praise Lady Mary had heaped upon him.
She sneaked another glance at Rochford. He was watching her, and there was something in his gaze that made her skin flare with heat. She tried to give him an admonitory glare, but she feared that it did not come out looking that way at all. When were these women going to leave? Had they not been here long past the polite limit for an afternoon call?
But still Lady Feringham prattled on. She had gone on to a discussion of Lord Chesterfield’s new phaeton, which his youngest son had apparently wrecked only this morning in an absurd race with Mr. William Arbuthnot. Francesca did her best to gasp and sigh and smile in all the right places, but she could not keep her eyes from straying back time and again to the duke.
She was swept with relief when at last Lady Feringham announced that they must take their leave. She could only hope that they did not see the joy flare in her eyes as she rose to bid goodbye to them.
When they were gone, Francesca whirled back to Rochford, who came to her in two quick strides and grasped both her hands in his, bringing them up to his lips and planting a hard, brief kiss on the knuckles of each one.
“I was beginning to think that they had taken root here,” he told her between kisses.
Francesca let out a giddy little laugh. “As did I. Oh, Sinclair…”
She let out his name on a sigh, gazing up into his face, her own features glowing as if lit from within.
He let out an oath under his breath and drew her into his arms, bending to kiss her fiercely. When they at last emerged from the embrace sometime later, Francesca’s face was rosy and her eyes shining, her lips soft and almost bruised-looking.
“When you look at me like that, I forget all else,” he told her hoarsely. “We must talk.”
“Must we?” she retorted lightly, grinning in a deliberately provocative way. “I can think of a number of things I would rather do.”
“Vixen.” He raised her hand again and turned it over to press a kiss into her palm. “You know that I would, as well. But I have to tell you—”
There was the sound of a discreet cough in the hallway, and they sprang apart, Rochford swinging away to inspect the mantel as though it held some deep fascination for him. Francesca grimaced, but composed her expression and turned to face her butler.
“Yes, Fenton?”
“Mrs. Frederick Wilberforce to see you, madam.”
She would dearly have liked to instruct him to tell the woman that she was not at home, but she knew that Mrs. Wilberforce must have seen the other callers leaving, and if she was then turned away, her feelings would be hurt. Mrs. Wilberforce, having “married up,” was especially sensitive to any sort of slight.
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—”
“What the bloody hell do you expect me to be?” he lashed out. “What was last night about? Your gratitude? Thank you, but I did not need a payment!”
Francesca’s head snapped back as though he had hit her, and her cheeks flared with color. “I did not pay you! I gave myself to you because—” She stopped, unable to expose her love to him when he was staring at her so stonily.
His eyebrows shot up. “Yes? Because?” He grimaced and swung away. “My God, what an idiot I’ve been.” He took a few steps from her, then whirled back to pierce her with his black gaze. “What did you intend? One night? Two?”
“No. I— Just not marriage.”
“An affair?” He appeared, if possible, even more thunderstruck. “Are you telling me that you thought we would skulk about, hiding our relationship from everyone? What was I to do? Marry another and all the while carry on an affair behind my wife’s back? Is that what you think of me? Is that the sort of man I seem to you?”
Tears choked Francesca. “No! No, please, Sinclair…”
“Sweet Jesu! I thought you cared for me. I thought that, after all these years, you had realized—that you wanted—” He let out an oath, followed by a bitter laugh. “How many times can a man play the fool for you?” He shook his head. “Well, this is the last, I assure you. Goodbye, my lady, I will not bother you any further.”
Francesca stood frozen in horror for a moment, then started after him. “Sinclair, wait! No!”
He whipped back around and tossed the box in his hand onto the ground in front of her. “Here. Add this to your collection.”
He strode off to the gate, flung it open and was gone. The gate crashed shut behind him, leaving the garden in a ringing silence.
Francesca could not think, could not move. She began to shake, and tears rushed from her eyes. This could not be happening! He could not have walked out of her life like this!
She dropped to her knees, suddenly too weak to remain standing. Despite the warmth of the summer afternoon, she was chilled to the bone, and an uncontrollable trembling shook her body. She reached out, picked up the small box he had dropped and opened it. A ring lay inside, simple and elegant, a large pear-shaped yellow diamond. The Lilles diamond, the wedding ring of the Duchesses of Rochford.
Her fingers curled around it, and she sagged to the ground, clutching the ring to her chest.
“MY LADY? MY LADY?” Maisie’s voice sounded close to Francesca’s ear. “What is amiss? Are you ill?”
Francesca opened her eyes and looked up to see her maid kneeling over her, peering down into her face with worried eyes. Francesca blinked. She could not have said how long she had lain there, spent and despairing.
She sat up dazedly, realizing that she still held the small jewelry box clutched tightly in her fist, and that her fist was still pressed to her heart. “I am fine, Maisie. Do not worry.”
“My lady, what happened? Bess saw you lying out here, and she screeched fit to wake the dead. She thought you’d been struck down.”
Francesca swallowed. “I have been. But not in the way you think.” She rose to her knees, and Maisie took her arm to help her up.
“Fenton thought His Grace was out here with you earlier. He never… He didn’t do this to you, did he?”
“No! No, he would never hit me. No. I did this to myself, I fear.” Francesca tried to smile at her maid, but she knew that her effort was not successful. “I believe that I will go up to my room now. Really, I am all right. Tell the others not to worry. I am merely…tired.”
“It’s not that blackguard back again, is it?” Maisie persisted as they walked to the back door.
“Perkins?” Francesca shook her head. “No. He is gone for good. I have just…mishandled something very badly. I think—” Tears welled in her eyes. “I think the duke will not be here again.”
“What?” Her maid’s eyes grew large and round. “But, my lady—”
“Please. I cannot talk about it now. I must go to my room and rest.”
They went inside and up the back stairs. In her room, Maisie helped her mistress out of her dress and wrapped her dressing gown around her. Despite its warmth, Francesca still shivered, and Maisie lit a fire in the fireplace to warm her.
Later, she brought up tea and supper on a tray. Francesca could not bring herself to eat, but she drank the hot tea gratefully. For a long time she sat staring numbly into the fire, her thoughts running on a long, futile track.
Her instinct was to run to Rochford, to throw herself at him and beg him to hear her out—to make him listen to her somehow. She would explain it all, she thought, and he would understand why she had turned him down. He would realize that she was right. They could not marry; he would know that, if he only considered it a little.
She would tell him how she felt, convince him that it was not lack of feeling that had made her refuse him—how could he think that, after what had happened between them!
But, of course, she knew she could not run to him. He would not even see her. He had been so angry, so cold. Just remembering the icy disdain with which he flung the ring at her made tears spring to her eyes.
She decided to write him a letter, and she went downstairs to her desk, creeping like a mouse to avoid the notice of any of the servants. She wasted page after page, starting one explanation after another. Nothing that she wrote was adequate; nothing could express the horror and regret she had felt at the expression on Sinclair’s face. Nothing, she thought, would make him take her back.
He hated her. Her clumsy rejection had cut him deeply. He would never forgive her.
Francesca cursed her own stupidity. She should have been better prepared. She should have known that Sinclair, with his engrained code of honor, would have felt duty-bound to offer marriage to her after he had slept with her. No matter what was reasonable or sound, he would give her the chance to retain her honor.
If she had given it any thought, instead of going blithely through her day, brimming with happiness, she would have realized that she needed to be prepared to deal with a marriage proposal. She could have marshalled her reasons and laid them out carefully. With a little forethought, she could have avoided the anger and the hurt.
But perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps nothing could have avoided what had happened. The fact was, she had been headstrong and impulsive. She had wanted him, had wanted to experience that intimate, vital pleasure with him, and she had been certain that she could make everything work out. She had let her desire rule her, and look at the result: She had lost Rochford—not only as a lover, but as a friend.
It was the bleakest fate she could think of. How was she to live without ever having his smile warm her again? Without him turning to her and raising an eyebrow in that maddening way? Never watching him take a fence as if he were all of a piece with his horse?
With a shaky sigh, Francesca closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Perhaps after a few days…when his fury had had time to cool, when he was more likely to be reasonable, she could send him a letter and explain it all.
But no, it was probably better this way. She should let him go without trying to justify her actions. Put an end to it so that he could get back to his life. She should wrap up the Lilles wedding ring tomorrow and return it to him without any explanation.
But the thought pierced her like a knife. She was not sure that she had the strength to be so noble.
Tiredness overcame her finally, and she went to bed. But then, perversely, sleep would not come. She lay awake for long hours, simply staring into the dark and regretting her actions. When she did fall asleep, it seemed as though she jerked awake immediately.
Her eyes flew open, and she lay tensely, wondering what had awakened her. The house was in deep silence all around her, and after a long moment she closed her eyes again, telling herself that it was simply her own distress that had pulled her out of sleep.
A floorboard creaked then, and she rolled over. A dark male form loomed at the end of her bed. For an instant hope leaped into her heart. Sinclair!
But then the figure was rushing around the side of the bed, something dark in his arms, and she realized with horror that it was not Sinclair, coming to take her in his arms again, but Perkins.
She opened her mouth to scream, but something heavy and dark dropped around her, silencing her.