CHAPTER NINE
HE WAS WAITING on the front stoop when she unlocked the heavy door and opened it. Mindful of the servants finishing up their cleaning in the assembly room, she held a finger up to her lips for quiet. It would be just as well that the servants not see her letting a man into the house this late at night, even one of such character as the Duke of Rochford. Her own servants were discreet, but she did not know the ones whom Fenton had hired to help with the party.
Rochford raised his brows at her gesture but obediently did not speak, merely stepped inside. Francesca cast another glance over at the lighted room, then gestured for him to follow her and slipped off down the hall.
She led him to the morning room at the back, which was her favorite spot—and was also the farthest from the room where the servants were cleaning. When he stepped inside, she closed the door behind him and walked over to light a lamp.
Turning back to him, she crossed her arms and fixed him with a severe look. “All right. Confess.”
“Gladly,” he responded lightly. “To what would you like me to confess?”
“I saw that Mr. Perkins was soon suspiciously absent from the party.”
“Perhaps he grew bored. I doubt he was well received by any of your guests.”
Francesca quirked a brow. “I also noticed that you and your cohorts were gone at the same time.”
He grinned. “My cohorts? Pray, tell me, who are my ‘cohorts’?”
“Lord Radbourne and Lord Bromwell. What did you do?”
“We simply suggested to Perkins that he would be happier elsewhere…and then we went with him to make sure that he arrived safely.”
“Sinclair! Did you hurt him?”
“Really, Francesca, what sort of ruffian do you take me for?” He idly picked a speck of lint from the arm of his immaculate black jacket.
“I would have said no ruffian at all, until I saw you trying to bash in your future brother-in-law’s head.”
“He was not my future brother-in-law at the time,” he pointed out mildly. “Besides, I had a good deal more basis for hitting Bromwell. I thought he was trying to ruin my sister’s reputation. Perkins was merely…bothersome.”
“So you only talked to him?” Francesca asked.
He shrugged. “Yes. Gideon was in favor of throwing him in the Thames—” At Francesca’s horrified gasp, a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth, and he went on in a confidential tone. “Gideon’s upbringing, you know. Bromwell and I dissuaded him, though I may have intimated to Perkins that his fate would be worse if he bothered you again.”
“What did he…did he say anything untoward?”
“He said a number of things I cannot repeat to a lady. Nothing of any significance.” He studied at her, puzzled. “Tell me, why are you so concerned about the miserable villain? Surely you did not actually invite him tonight.”
“No, of course not. I don’t care about him. Well, I do care, but not in a good way. He is a wicked man. I was worried that he might have hurt you, if you must know.” She turned away, crossing the room. “Though clearly I need not have been concerned.”
He took a step after her, his expression softening, then stopped. “No, you need not. Perkins is no threat.”
“He might retaliate,” she pointed out as she opened the door of a walnut cabinet and reached inside.
“I can handle him.”
“Very well. Brandy?” Without waiting for his reply, she pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass. Brandy was not considered a woman’s drink, and she usually did not partake, keeping it on hand more for her friend Sir Lucien than for any other reason. But tonight, she thought, a brandy seemed just the thing.
Rochford watched her as she poured. He wondered if she had even thought about the fact that she had answered the door in her dressing gown, her unbound hair flowing in a golden cascade down her back. Once he had dreamed of being with her this way—of course, in those daydreams he would have had the right to go to her and take her in his arms, to glide his hand down the silken fall of her hair.
He turned away abruptly and sat down on a chair. “Why did you permit him to stay tonight?”
Francesca sighed. “It seemed the easiest course. I did not want a scene, and I feared that Perkins was precisely the sort of man who would cause one. Besides, he was Andrew’s friend. I—I hated to be openly rude to him.”
She handed the duke a snifter of brandy and sat down on the sofa across from him. Rochford took a sip.
“I would have thought that it would be quite easy to be rude to most of Haughston’s friends.”
Francesca could not hold back a grin, but she tried to cover it by taking a quick drink of the brandy. It slid down her esophagus like velvet fire, igniting her stomach and sending soft tendrils of relaxation creeping through her. She let out a sigh, then took another sip and curled her feet up on the sofa beside her, like a child.
She looked across at Rochford. He was so strong, so capable. Of course Perkins would not worry him. He would brush the man off like an insect.
For an instant she thought of telling Rochford about Perkins and his threat, of putting the whole mess in his competent hands. Quickly she turned her gaze back to her drink, swirling the amber liquid around in the glass. She could not do such a thing, of course. She had no hold on Rochford, no claim. It would be unthinkably forward of her to tell him of her problems. Like the gentleman he was, he might try to solve the matter for her, but obviously that would be wrong.
Besides, it would be utterly humiliating to reveal to the man she had not married what a horrible, foolish mistake she had made in the man she had chosen. To let him see how close she lived to the edge of poverty, how she had to scrabble for money to pay for food and clothing and servants. Besides, he might think she was asking him for the money to pay off Perkins, which would sink her with shame. Quickly, she took another sip of her drink.
Rochford’s eyes went to the front of her dressing gown, where her lapels gaped a little, showing the shadowed tops of her breasts and the dark valley of demarcation between them. He could not help but wonder what she wore beneath the robe. If it was a nightrail, it must be low-necked. Or perhaps she had thrown the robe on over her undergarments, so that only a flimsy chemise and pantalets lay under the dressing gown.
He started to speak and was startled by the hoarseness of his voice. He cleared his throat and started again. “I thought we might discuss the, ah, ladies we were considering.”
“Yes, of course.” Francesca was happy to divert her thoughts from their course. “How did you like Lady Damaris?”
“She seems quite competent, as you said. Adept at conversation.” He paused.
“Then, um, was she your favorite?” His words seemed cool praise to her, but then, Rochford was a very sensible man.
“Not especially. I am not sure I had a favorite, really.”
“You talked to Lady Mary quite a bit. I was surprised. She has usually seemed rather shy when I have been around her.”
His lips twitched slightly. “I rather think that she thought me too old to be frightening. I believe she puts me in the category of her father and his friends.”
“Old!” Francesca gaped at him, then burst into laughter. “Oh, my.”
“Well you may laugh,” he retorted. “I might remind you, my dear, that you are not that many years behind me.”
“No, of course not. I am an old crone, as well, no doubt.” She grinned wickedly at him. “Perhaps you can steal in beneath her defenses. I have no doubt that later you would be able to convince her that you are not entirely doddering yet.”
“It seems quite an effort,” he mused.
“What of Lady Caroline?” She remembered the pang she had felt, watching him with the young girl. Envy, she supposed, at the girl’s youth. But she could not let that influence her—or cause her to try to influence him.
His mouth tightened. “Bloody hell, Francesca! What possessed you to saddle me with that chit? A more boring girl I hope never to meet.”
Francesca pressed her lips together tightly to suppress a laugh. She should not feel so elated to hear that he had disliked the girl, but she could not quell the amusement rising up in her like a bubble.
“She was unable to talk about anything,” he went on with some bitterness. “And if she had an opinion on something, I was unable to discover it. Every time I asked her a question, she responded by asking what I thought of it. Where is the sense in that? I already knew what I thought.”
Francesca swallowed her chuckle. “Perhaps you should give Lady Caroline another chance. She is young, after all, and mayhap she is shy around someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” he repeated, fixing her with his black gaze. “What do you mean? Are you implying that I am intimidating? Stiff and unyielding? Or perhaps it is my advanced age to which you are referring.”
She could not repress a laugh at that. “You can be a trifle…overwhelming. You are a duke, after all, and when you get that look on your face—you know, as if a muddy pup had just put his paws on your best boots…”
“I beg your pardon. I am never unkind to puppies.” With an effort, he controlled the quiver at the corner of his mouth. “And I must say, I have never noticed that you seemed to be in the least in awe of my being a duke. Not even when you were fourteen.”
“It is difficult to be in awe of someone when you have seen him sliding down the roof of a barn into a haystack,” Francesca shot back.
Rochford let out a hoot of laughter. “When was that?”
“At Dancy Park, when I was eight and you were thirteen. You and Dom and I had been riding, and we stopped at Jamie Evans’ farm. The groom tried to stop us, but it was no use. There was a great pile of hay, and Dom jumped off a fence rail into it and dared me to jump into it, too.”
“And you said, ‘I’ll go off the roof!’ Of course. How could I have forgotten that? You were incorrigible.”
“Well, I only did it because you told Dom that I was much too small to do such a thing, so I had to prove to you that I wasn’t. And then you ordered me not to.”
“Ah, yes. Of course that would have set you to it immediately. I was less wise at thirteen.”
“Then you jumped off the roof, as well.”
“I could hardly refrain if you were daring enough to do it.”
“If that isn’t just like you!” Francesca exclaimed in mock exasperation. “Putting the blame on me.”
“That is precisely where it belonged most of the time. You were a mischievous imp.”
“And you were entirely too full of yourself.”
His smile broadened. “One has to wonder, then, why you chose to tag about after me.”
“I did not do any such thing,” Francesca retorted, adding with great dignity, “You and Dom simply happened to go where I wanted to.”
He chuckled, his dark eyes alight, and rose from his seat. “Another brandy?”
“I better not. I am feeling quite pleasant. Any more and I would be absolutely tiddly.” She took a last sip of her drink and stood up. “Would you like another?”
“No. I am fine.”
She took his glass and crossed over to the cabinet to set the snifters down beside the decanter. Not looking at him, she said casually, “Do you have a preference, then?”
“A preference? What do you mean?”
“For one of the girls.” She turned back. “Are you more in favor of one than another?”
He looked at her for a moment, then replied blandly, “Yes, I prefer one.”
“Who?” Francesca walked back to him. The question seemed suddenly very important. Which of the women had caught his eye? Did he plan to pursue her?
“Not Lady Caroline,” he told her dryly. He took a step closer to her. His voice was low as he went on, “Tell me, my dear, do you plan to oversee my courtship, as well?”
Standing this close to him, looking up into his face, stirred an odd feeling in Francesca, something warm and yet a trifle frightening, as well. She remembered that time on the roof of the barn, when she had stared down at the haystack below her, and her heart had hammered madly inside her ribs with fear, yet she’d been oddly drawn to jump, as well. She felt something like that now, as she gazed into his black eyes.
She pulled her gaze away, turning her head to the side as she said, her voice a little breathless, “I am sure that you will be able to handle that well enough on your own.”
“I would not be so sure, if I were you,” Rochford replied. “After all, look at my past attempts at wooing women. Obviously I have not been terribly successful.” He paused, then went on, “Perhaps you should give me instructions in wooing.”
“Indeed?” Francesca tilted her chin up challengingly. “I hardly think that is necessary. I am sure that you know well enough how to compliment a woman.”
Her breath was coming much too rapidly, she knew. It was absurd to feel this way—warm and loose, yet tingling with barely suppressed anticipation.
“Such as telling her that her hair shimmers like gold in the candlelight?” he asked, his eyes going to her hair. “Or that her eyes glow like sapphires?”
“You must not do it too brown,” she retorted, striving for a light tone.
He reached up and touched her hair lightly with the back of his hand. “It is only the truth.”
His husky voice reverberated through her.
“I—I’m not sure the truth is ever a good idea when one is describing a woman.”
“Not even when her skin is soft and smooth?” he asked, as his knuckles brushed down her cheek. “Or when her lips are perfectly shaped?” He traced his forefinger along the line of her upper lip. “Just waiting to be kissed.”
“You seem quite skilled at this,” Francesca breathed, her eyes fluttering closed. Tendrils of heat were stealing through her, awakening nerve endings all through her body.
“What should I do next?” He lowered his head, so close now that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek, and the delicate touch made her shiver.
“A kiss on the hand is never amiss.”
He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, pressing his mouth gently against the back of her hand. Then he turned it over and laid another kiss in her palm. His mouth was warm and soft upon her flesh, and at the touch, the strands of heat that were curling through her tangled and pooled deep in her abdomen.
Still holding her hand, Rochford kissed each fingertip in turn. He looked up at her again, and his dark eyes smoldered. “Would that be pleasing?”
Flooded by new and startling sensations, Francesca could do nothing but stare back at him, her eyes wide and lambent.
He moved closer to her, raising his hand to brush his knuckles down her face again. “Or perhaps this,” he murmured, as he bent and touched his lips to her cheek.
He kissed the ridge of her jaw, and then moved on to the tender skin of her throat. His hand went to her arm, sliding down it, and Francesca was aware of a vague wish that her dressing gown did not lie between her skin and his touch.
Nuzzling her neck, he moved lower, inch by inch, until he reached the collar of her dressing gown. Francesca trembled. Her knees were suddenly weak, and she feared that they might give way at any moment, and she would sink to the ground. She barely held back a soft animal moan as his mouth found the shallow hollow of her throat. Then his tongue crept out and traced the bony ridge around the hollow, and she could not restrain the tiny gasp of surprise and pleasure.
“They say,” he went on, leaving her neck and moving up to hover near her ear, “that some women prefer something like this.” He kissed her ear, then gently closed his teeth around the lobe and worried it.
Francesca swallowed, and involuntarily her hands came up to his chest, clutching the lapels of his coat, holding tightly as her world trembled around her. “Sinclair…”
His tongue traced the whorls of her ear, sending bright shivers of delight through her. She felt her nipples tightening almost painfully, and a pulse started between her legs. She had never felt anything like this before, this eager, thrumming surge of hunger that was spreading through her loins.
Then his hands were at the sash of her dressing gown, untying it, and one hand slid beneath the robe. She felt his palm laid flat against her stomach, only the thin cloth of her chemise separating skin from skin. He slipped his hand up her body until he cupped her breast in his palm.
“A woman might wish something more…like this.” His voice was thick and low; it pulled at her like a physical sensation.
His fingers played across her breast, caressing the nipple so that it turned tauter and harder. Francesca made a soft, inarticulate noise deep in her throat.
“Though no doubt some would hold it far too bold.” His fingers slipped beneath the edge of her chemise and brushed across her bare skin.
Francesca feared that if she had not been holding onto his coat, her knees would have buckled and sent her to the floor.
“Mayhap it would be better…” Sinclair gently guided her to turn so that her back was to him, and he lifted the heavy mass of her hair in one hand, holding it up and away from her neck. He bent and kissed the back of her neck, making his way up the knobbed ridge of her spine, his mouth hot and featherlight, teasing at the sensitive skin.
A shudder shot through her, and Francesca sagged back weakly against his hard chest. His other hand went around her, splaying out over her stomach and pressing her into him. As he kissed the side of her neck, his hand slowly roamed her body, curving over her breasts, then drifting down onto her abdomen, moving ever closer to the seat of her yearning.
She drew in her breath softly, anticipating his touch, imagining his fingers sliding in between her legs. But instead he was turning her back around. She felt as limp and unresisting as a rag doll in his hands.
“Still, all in all,” he murmured as he kissed first one cheek and then the other, “this would be the best thing to do.”
His lips brushed hers, once, twice, and finally settled in. Francesca melted into him, her arms going up around his neck and her mouth opening to the pressure of his lips. His own mouth rocked against hers, pressure and heat increasing, and his tongue moved into her mouth to boldly claim it.
It was the way he had kissed her the other night, and like that other kiss, this one set her body aflame. Her skin felt taut and stretched, tingling all over with a new awareness. Their bodies were pressed together, nothing separating them but their clothes, and she found herself wishing that there was not even that. She wanted to feel his skin upon hers. She wanted, she realized wildly, to rub her body against him.
His arms wrapped around her, and he crushed her to him, his mouth avid on hers. Francesca clung to him, her heart leaping like a mad thing. She was lost in the experience, her senses so bombarded that she could not even name all she felt. She yearned and ached in an inchoate way, filled with a hunger she did not recognize.
He broke from her with a groan, burying his face in her neck. “Francesca. My…” He bit off the rest of his words, and for a moment, there was no sound but that of their ragged breathing.
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.