by Candace Camp
“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 w
as 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.
On the other hand, she had to admit with a blush, a lady would not have come down to secretly open the door to a gentleman so late at night. Nor would she have slipped him past the servants and closed herself in a room alone with him.
Not only that, she had imbibed brandy in his company—she had even been the one to suggest it. Worst of all, she had thoughtlessly run down to meet him wearing only her dressing gown, under which she had on only her undergarments. No doubt any man might be forgiven for thinking that she was not averse to seduction.
When she looked at it in that light, it was enough to make her cringe with embarrassment. Widows were often considered to be more lax about their morals than a maiden; they were, at least, far more knowledgeable. Widows were not closely chaperoned, and when a woman was childless throughout years of marriage, as she had been, then there was unlikely to be the scandal of a child born out of wedlock. And in the sophisticated world of the ton, once a woman had married it was not unusual for her to engage in affairs without being ostracized for it, so long as she kept the matter discreet. However, Francesca had always been extremely careful not to give anyone even the slightest reason to believe that she was loose in her behavior.
Whatever had possessed her to act as she had last night? Had Rochford assumed that, given how she was dressed, she was open to seduction, perhaps even inviting it?
How could she face him again if he had thought that about her?
Yet she could not help but wonder—if he had thought her open to seduction, then why had he stopped? She had certainly done nothing to make him think she was unwilling. And that, she realized, was the most lowering thought of all: that he had grown uninterested in her.
Perhaps he had not felt the same excitement that she had. Maybe, even at that early stage, he had sensed in her the coldness that had so frustrated and angered Andrew. Tears sprang into her eyes at the thought. She had long ago stopped crying over her husband’s disappointment in her. In truth, she had been glad that it had at least caused him to seek her bed less and less often. She had hated knowing that she was inferior to other women, but it had stopped causing her sorrow that Haughston was disappointed in her.
But now, thinking that Rochford might have realized the true coldness of her nature, she wanted to cry. And as one day passed and turned into another, she could not help but think that his absence was due to the same reason that had made him cease kissing her and leave.
It should not make her feel so dejected, she knew. She would not have gone to bed with him if he had stayed—surely she would not have. She did not want an affair with him or any other man. Fortunately, the part of her life where she had to submit to a man’s pleasure was over. So there was absolutely no reason to feel downhearted because the man she had once loved had not tried to complete the seduction he had started.
And she would not dwell on it any longer.
She forced herself to turn to her neglected correspondence, but…within five minutes, her thoughts were going over the same well-trodden path.
When she did manage to put the matter of Rochford and their kisses from her mind, it was only to replace it with worry over Perkins. She had feared that he would appear at her door again to rage about Rochford’s treatment of him, but he had not. That fact should have been a relief, but it was not. Knowing that he might pop up at any moment kept her nerves on edge, and her anxiety only increased as the days crept along toward her day of reckoning with him.
Francesca had no idea what she would do, what she would say to the man when he came again to demand her payment. She racked her brain to think of some argument that would convince him not to go through with his pla
n, some way to disprove what he said, some schedule by which she could pay off the debt that he claimed she owed him. But her thoughts were scattered and disjointed, and nothing she could offer seemed adequate. He would know as well as she that she could not pay off that much money in her lifetime, and he certainly would not want to wait. Perkins was not a man to display any kindness.
Two days after the party, Francesca was in the sitting room, trying to add up all her assets in the hope of making them amount to something close to the figure Perkins was demanding, when she heard Callie’s voice in the hallway.
She jumped to her feet, thinking Rochford would be there, as well.
But it turned out that Callie had come alone, and Francesca chided herself for the faint spurt of disappointment she felt. Putting that aside with a smile, she stepped forward and took her visitor’s hands, squeezing them affectionately.
“Callie, I was just thinking of you. I was going to call on you this very afternoon.”
“Then I am glad that I arrived before you left to see me,” Callie responded with an answering smile.
Francesca rang for tea, and the two of them sat down for a good cozy chat. The night at the party, they had barely scratched the surface of conversation. Unfortunately, Francesca learned, her friend was departing the next day for her husband’s estate in the country.
“No, you must not! You have just gotten home,” Francesca protested.
“I know. But Brom has been away from his estate far too long already. He says he has neglected it dreadfully. He went back to it only briefly before our wedding.”
Francesca grinned at her friend. “Yes, I remember. He said he was going back for the whole two months of your engagement, but he could not stay away from you longer than two weeks.”
Callie laughed in a throaty, self-satisfied way. “True. Of course, at the time he claimed that there was less to do than he had thought.”