by Candace Camp
The movement of his hands was incredibly comforting. She felt, at least for the moment, safe and secure, warmed by his heat. She could believe that nothing bad could ever happen to her here.
Yet, she realized, at the same time his touch stirred something inside her. She closed her eyes, amazed that she could feel such a thing, especially at a time as this. Something brushed against her hair, and she realized, wonderingly, that he must have kissed her.
His hand drifted down her arm. She could feel the brush of his breath against her neck, and then his lips pressed lightly against her skin. Francesca drew a shaky breath, her body flaming to life. Her nipples prickled, hardening and pressing against her dress.
She bent her head down, exposing her neck further to him, and she felt him stiffen, his skin suddenly searing. He pressed his mouth upon the back of her neck, velvety soft upon her skin. His breath rasped harshly in his throat, tickling her flesh, raising goose bumps along her arms, and she shivered.
She wanted to melt into him, to open herself to him. She had never felt this way before—so vulnerable, yet at the same time reveling in that vulnerability. A pulsing heat began low in her abdomen, and she was aware of an ache deep inside her. She yearned, she realized, for him to lay claim to her, to sink deep inside her. The depth of her desire was so new and different that it startled her into stillness.
He tensed. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Francesca. You came to me for help, and I’ve—”
Rochford gently lifted her and set her from him. She felt bereft and wished that he would take her back into his arms. But she was at least fully enough in possession of her senses to realize that she could not ask that.
He handed her a snowy white handkerchief, and she took it, not looking at him, and stood up, walking away as she dried the tears from her face. Rochford let out a small sigh and rose, too, watching her.
She turned back and found him studying her. A blush started up her throat. “I am sorry.”
“Stop saying that.” His voice was harsh, and he seemed to realize it. He closed his eyes and visibly relaxed. “Francesca…tell me what is troubling you. You said that you were scared. Who has frightened you? What happened?”
She drew a breath, gathering courage. Suddenly the thought that had seized her back home in the midst of her despair no longer seemed so feasible. “I—I came to ask you for a loan.”
He stared at her, dumbstruck.
She hurried on. “I know it is terribly improper, and I had sworn that I would not ask you, but I can think of no other way, and I cannot bear to think of that man in my house. I must do something!”
“Man! What man? Are you telling me that a man broke in to your home?”
“No, no. He did not break in. It is Perkins.”
“Galen Perkins?” Rochford’s dark eyes were suddenly a little frightening. “Perkins is in your house?”
He started toward the door, and Francesca hurried to grab his hand. “No! No, he isn’t there now. I am telling this all wrong. Please, come back and sit down. Let me begin at the beginning.”
“All right.” He allowed her to lead him back to the small sofa and sat down with her. Her hand was still in his, and he curled his fingers around hers. “Tell me.”
“Lord Haughston—”
“It starts that far back?”
“Yes, it does. Andrew was…imprudent.”
He let out a short, harsh laugh that held no humor. “Lord Haughston was a fool.”
Francesca started to protest, then shrugged. “Yes, he was. You were right about him.” She turned her face away from him, unable to look into his eyes as she went on. “I was an idiot to marry him. You tried to tell me, and I would not listen. I’m sorry.”
She looked at him then and was surprised to see the pain that flashed in his eyes. “It is I who am sorry. I knew it was useless to tell you, with you in the throes of new love, but I had to try. I made a mess of it.”
“I was certain that you warned me against him only because you were…bitter.”
Rochford had come back from his estate after her engagement was announced and had told her in a cold, hard voice that she was making a mistake to marry such a fool as Andrew Haughston. She remembered the pain that had sprung up in her afresh when she saw him, and she knew that it was that pain, more than any love for Andrew, that had made her storm out of the room, refusing to listen to him.
“I was bitter,” he admitted with a grimace. “But it did not mean I was not telling you the truth. I handled it poorly. I would have been better served writing you a letter instead of appearing on your doorstep. I could have presented my case more clearly. I fear that I have never been very clearheaded around you. I should have proved to you what sort of man Haughston was—stayed there until you listened to me and believed. But I let my deuced pride rule me.”
Francesca smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh, Sinclair. Pray do not blame yourself. It was my fault and no one else’s that I married the man. I should have been more careful. Should not have rushed into marriage. It was just—I wanted to love him. I wanted to believe that he was the perfect man for me. I was hurt and lonely, and angry at you.”
She looked into his eyes. “You called Andrew a fool, but I was ten times that, hastening to marry because I wanted to prove to you that my heart was not broken.”
He went still, his fingers tightening on hers. Realizing how much she had just revealed, Francesca jumped to her feet and walked away.
“But that is not the point of my story. What is pertinent is that Lord Haughston left me almost nothing when he died. Indeed, he left me with a number of debts to pay. Since he died, I have been barely scraping by.”
“I know,” he told her quietly.
Francesca stared. “You know?” Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Is it common knowledge? Does everyone in the ton know?”
“No, no,” he hastened to assure her, rising and crossing to her. “It is only I. I had my suspicions how he might have left you, knowing the way he was. I…made a few discreet inquiries.”
Her embarrassment deepened. All these years, the man from whom she had most wanted to hide her financial problems had known about them. “You must have thought me a terrible fool.”
“No, of course not.”
She sighed. “I suppose it should not matter. You have always known the worst of me.”
A faint smile touched his face and was gone. “True. As you have seen the worst of me.”
His remark brought a smile to her face. “Have I? Then your worst must be a trifling thing.”
“As is yours.”
Her heart warmed within her, and she had to swallow hard to suppress her emotion. She turned away, clearing her throat and saying, “Well, I learned to economize—you would be most surprised to see me shop.” Looking away from him as she was, she did not see the pain and regret that colored his features. “I have managed to get by. But now Perkins—”
“What the devil does Perkins have to do with anything?”
“He won my house from Andrew in a card game!” Francesca whirled back around, rage rising up in her all anew. “That…bastard threw away my home on a hand of cards!”
A red light flared in Rochford’s eyes, and he let out a string of curses. Francesca was not certain whether they were directed at Perkins or her late husband. She knew only that they made her feel strangely better.
“Perkins told me that if I repaid the money Andrew owed him, he would tear up the paper Andrew signed giving him ownership of the house. I have sold what I can, but it is completely beyond my means. But if—”
She swallowed, not daring to look him in the face. What she was asking was completely improper. A woman could not take such a large amount of money from a man without compromising her virtue, and she feared that he would think terribly of her for doing so. For a moment, she thought she could not go on.
Then, in a rush, she said, “If you would but loan it to me, I could give him the money. I would pay it back, I promise. I will sell t
he house and that will give me enough money to—”
“You will not sell your house,” Rochford told her flatly.
“It is either that or lease it during the Season, but it would take me years to repay the loan then, and, truly, if I sold it, I could repay you and purchase a smaller house.”
“You are not leasing it. You are not selling it. And there will be no loan.”
Francesca turned to stare at him, her stomach clenching in despair.
The duke’s face was so stony, his eyes so flat and cold, that any words she might have spoken died. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let that bloody ivory-turner have your house. Cranston will call the carriage and send you home.” He started toward the door.
“Rochford! What are you doing?” Anxiously, Francesca started after him.
He turned and said shortly, “I am going to see Perkins.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“SINCLAIR! NO!” Francesca ran after him, grabbing his arm and tugging him to a stop. “What are you going to do? I won’t let you simply pay off my debt for me.”
“Do not worry yourself about that. ’Tis highly unlikely that there will be any exchange of money involved. It is my opinion that Perkins will find he needs to return to the Continent forthwith.”
“Sinclair!” Francesca’s eyes widened in alarm. “You mean to go over there to fight him? No, you must not. Truly, it is not worth it. You will get hurt.”
The duke cocked an eyebrow at her. “Are you suggesting that I cannot take care of a weasel like Perkins?”
“He killed a man!”
“I am considered something of a shot, as well—in my own humble way.”
“I know that.” Francesca grimaced. “But you are a gentleman, with a code of honor, whereas Perkins is not bound by any such rules.”
“Quite frankly, where Perkins is concerned, I don’t feel particularly bound by the rules, either.”
“No, please…you must not get involved in a duel. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
“Your faith in me is a trifle underwhelming, my dear.” As she started to protest again, he shook his head and placed his forefinger against her lips. “There will not be a duel. I can promise you that. I can deal adequately with Perkins without that.”
Francesca released his arm, though she still frowned. “He will not fight fair. You cannot trust him.”
“Believe me, I do not intend to.”
He stepped away and walked to the door, then turned to look back at her. She was standing in the middle of the room, watching him forlornly. Her dark blue eyes were huge in her pale face.
Rochford muttered an oath beneath his breath and strode back to her, sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her. Startled, she did not move for an instant, but then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body up into his. He kissed her thoroughly, taking his time, and when at last he set her down, she was breathless, her heart beating like a wild thing.
Then he was gone, striding out into the hall, calling for Cranston. Francesca sank down into a chair, dazed. She heard Rochford and his butler talking in low voices in the hallway, but she could not understand what they were saying. A short while later, Cranston appeared in the doorway and bowed.
“My lady, the carriage is at the door to take you home.”
“Thank you, Cranston.” She summoned up a smile, though she suspected that it was not a very successful effort.
He held out her cloak, and she slipped into it, tying it in the front. Pulling the hood up to conceal her, she followed the butler to the front door. As promised, Rochford’s carriage waited outside, and Cranston handed her up into it. She wondered what he must think about these peculiar goings-on, but his face, of course, revealed none of his thoughts.
She had hoped to see the duke again before she left, but she thought that he must have gone straight out after giving his butler instructions. Nerves jittered in her stomach, and she drew a deep breath, trying to calm them.
Sinclair would be perfectly all right, she told herself. She had heard Dominic say that Rochford “showed to advantage” and was one he would want to have on his side in a “mill,” both of which statements Francesca took to be compliments to Sinclair’s fighting skill.
But she could not help but worry. Perkins would not hesitate to shoot an unarmed man. If Sinclair were killed trying to help her, she would never forgive herself. She wished that she had never taken it into her head to go to Lilles House. Better by far to lose her house than to bring about injury or even death to Rochford.
And yet, beneath the guilt and the worry, there was another feeling, a giddy uprush of emotion—gratitude, yes, but more than that. Certainly there was elation at the thought that she might not have to leave her home, but it was greater than that, as well. It was a deep, sweet warmth, an inner satisfaction at the realization that Sinclair still cared what happened to her.
THE DUKE OF ROCHFORD wasted little time finding Galen Perkins. He went first to a gambling hall on Pall Mall that he had known Lord Haughston to frequent years ago. It was still in business, but there was no sign of Perkins. A quick inquiry to the proprietor brought the news that Perkins was no longer welcome at his club, having left the country owing a substantial sum of money. He usually could be found, however, a few doors down on Pall Mall or at a club on Bennett.
Perkins was, in fact, at the second place, so happily engaged in a game of Hazard that he did not even glance up when Rochford entered the room. The duke quietly left and, giving the doorman a gold coin to bring Perkins to him, took up a post outside.
It was ten minutes later that the burly doorman opened the door and ushered Perkins out. Perkins glanced around, saying plaintively, “What the devil are you talking about? I don’t see anyone.”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. He just said he had a debt to pay you.”
Rochford stepped out of the shadows. “It is I.”
Perkins’ eyes widened, and he started to turn to go back inside, but Rochford clamped his hand around the man’s upper arm and steered him firmly into the street.
“You and I are going to have a talk.”
Perkins tried to pull away. “The devil we are. I am not going with you.”
“You think not?”
Rochford released Perkins’ arm and planted his fist in the other man’s stomach instead. Perkins doubled over as the air went out of him in a whoosh, and Rochford finished him off with an uppercut to the chin that left his lip bleeding. Perkins staggered and landed hard on the sidewalk.
The doorman had been watching them with great interest, and the duke gestured to him now. “Help me get this fellow up and into a cab. I believe it’s time for him to go home.”
The corner of the doorman’s mouth quirked up for an instant, and he came forward, reaching down to grab Perkins’ arm and haul him to his feet. Rochford signaled a hackney, and the two men bundled the pale and wheezing Perkins into it.
Rochford settled down in the seat across from Perkins. “Where are you rooming?”
Perkins regarded him in baleful silence.
Rochford sighed. “Do you really wish to have another go? I have no problem continuing, of course, but I fear you might tire of it before long.”
This time Perkins muttered an address. Rochford relayed it to the driver and sat back in his seat, arms crossed, regarding the other man steadily. Perkins, his arm still wrapped protectively across his stomach, leaned in the corner of the coach, avoiding the duke’s gaze.
When the hack pulled to a stop in front of a narrow, brown brick building, Rochford leaned across and took Perkins’ arm, jerking him out of the coach. He released the other man for a moment to pay for the ride, and Perkins took the opportunity to bolt.
Almost casually, Rochford stretched out his foot, catching Perkins at the ankles, and he went sprawling. Rochford handed the driver his money and bent down to pull Perkins to his feet. Now bleeding from a fresh cut to his cheek, as well as the old one to his li
p, Perkins offered no more resistance as Rochford steered him up the stairs and into the building.
There was another flight of stairs to climb once they were inside, and Perkins spent a few moments fumbling through his pockets for his key, but finally they were inside the room. With a contemptuous shove, the duke sent the other man sprawling onto his bed.
“Bloody hell!” Perkins burst out. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” He struggled to an upright position.
“I am sending you back to the Continent.”
“What? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Oh, but I think you are. First, you are going to give me the note that Lord Haughston supposedly wrote turning over his house to you. Then you are going to leave this country and never return.”
“The hell I will!” Perkins’ defiant cry would have been more effective if he had not staggered when he jumped to his feet and had to grab the bedstead to stay upright. “You can’t make me go anywhere.”
Rochford cocked one eyebrow expressively. Perkins regarded him stubbornly for a moment, then turned away.
“All right, all right,” he whined, making his way to the wardrobe and pulling a handled cloth bag from the bottom of it.
Opening the bag, he set it down on the bed, then turned to the small table beside it. His back turned to Rochford, he reached inside. As he pulled his hand out of the drawer, he whirled and charged Rochford, a blade glinting in his grasp.
Rochford sidestepped neatly and sent a sharp jab into his kidney as he passed. Perkins stumbled forward under the force of the blow, and Rochford followed, grabbing the arm that held the knife and twisting it behind his back. His hand was like iron around the other man’s wrist, and he jerked Perkins’ arm up painfully, pulling the knife from his fingers.
“Now,” he said, dropping the knife into the pocket of his jacket. “I hope we can proceed to your packing. Another stunt like that one, and you will be departing without any of your things.”