The Courtship Dance

by Candace Camp

  “You nearly wrenched my arm out of the socket,” Perkins whined, rubbing his shoulder. “Have you gone mad?”

  “I am quite sane, I assure you.”

  “I never did anything to you. You’ve no right to be pushing me about.”

  “You have offended a lady of my acquaintance. That gives me every right. Now, hand over the note.”

  Perkins’ mouth twisted bitterly. “That doxy! So that’s her price for becoming your plaything, eh?”

  Rochford’s fist shot out, slamming into Perkins’ cheek and knocking the man flat on the floor. Before Perkins could move, Rochford strode forward and set his boot across the other man’s throat.

  “I could do whatever I wished to you,” he pointed out conversationally. “I hope you are intelligent enough to understand that. If I wanted, I could crush your throat right now.” He pressed harder against Perkins’ wind-pipe. “I could kill you in an instant and then have my servants toss your body in the Thames. And no one would either know or care that you are gone.” He paused, then went on. “Now…I will tell you one last time. Give me the note.”

  Perkins had turned as white as chalk during the duke’s speech, and now he dug frantically in his inner pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He held it upward, waving it.

  Rochford relaxed his pressure somewhat and reached down to pluck the note from the other man’s fingers. He unfolded and perused it, his mouth tightening as he read; then he folded up the paper and stuck it in his pocket.

  “Tell me,” he said conversationally. “Just as a point of curiosity…was Haughston really so great a gudgeon as to write that note?”

  Perkins set his jaw stubbornly, and Rochford pressed his foot down harder.

  “No!” Perkins gasped. “I wrote it. I could always do his hand. The bird-witted clunch! I don’t know how many times I wrote his vowels. He was always too disguised to remember.”

  With a noise of disgust, Rochford removed his foot from the other man’s throat, and Perkins rose gingerly to his feet.

  “You will leave England tomorrow,” Rochford told him in icy tones. “And if you ever come back, I can promise you that I will put the full weight of my name and my fortune to seeing that you are prosecuted for murdering Avery Bagshaw. Do I make myself clear?”

  Hatred shot from Perkins’ eyes, but he nodded, reaching up to wipe the fresh blood from his mouth.

  “Good.” Rochford nodded. “It is my sincere hope never to see you again. Make sure I am not disappointed.”

  He turned and strode out the door. Behind him, Perkins glared at the door for a moment, then turned and walked stiff-legged over to the bag on the bed. He picked it up and flung it against the wall.

  “We’ll see about that,” he muttered sullenly. “We’ll bloody see about that.”

  FRANCESCA SAT IN the drawing room, not bothering to go upstairs and change. She was certain that Rochford would come to her when he was finished with Perkins, and if he did not, she feared that it would mean the worst. She could not possibly go up to bed with that hanging over her head.

  So she kicked off her shoes and curled up in the most comfortable chair in the room, angling it so that she could keep watch out the front bow window. Time moved by at an agonizing pace.

  She told herself that she did not need to worry. Rochford would take care of Perkins without coming to any harm. She had never known him to be unprepared or caught off guard. He was intelligent, as well as strong, and he would not let Perkins get the better of him, no matter how underhandedly Perkins went about it.

  But no matter how much she reassured herself, Francesca could not vanquish her fear. If anything happened to Sinclair because of her, she did not know what she would do. The thought was crushing.

  She closed her eyes, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. She should not have gone to Rochford. It had been foolish. Selfish.

  Yet she knew that she could not have done anything else. And if she were somehow given the chance to do it all again, she would undoubtedly do the same thing. The fact was, in all the world, out of all her family and friends, it was Rochford to whom she would always turn when she was in trouble.

  And that, she realized, was the central truth of her life. Rochford knew her better than anyone. He was the rock at the center of her world, the one person on whom she could rely.

  She had ignored that fact for years, denied it, done her best to pretend that it was otherwise. She had lived as another man’s wife, faithful to him in every way except the one that mattered most. Her heart belonged to Sinclair, and it always had.

  It always would.

  She did not fool herself that there could be any future for them. It was clear that Rochford felt some degree of passion for her—given his kisses and caresses, it would be hard to deny that fact. But she was wise enough to know that passion did not mean love, and it most certainly did not mean marriage.

  Francesca had lost any hope of those things when she broke off their engagement. The duke was too proud a man to propose a second time to a woman who had jilted him. Even if, by some wild stretch of the imagination, she could believe that he would want to marry her, it would be a dereliction of his duty to his name and family for him to marry a barren widow.

  No, Rochford knew where his responsibility lay, and he would marry the sort of woman he had to. Why else had he committed himself to finding a bride?

  She would have no satisfaction from her love. But still, there was something deep inside her that could not help but warm to the knowledge. Her heart had been a cold thing in her chest for so many years that it was a heady experience to have it swell again with sweet emotion.

  She leaned forward, spotting a man walking toward her house. She waited tensely as he came closer.

  “Sinclair!” Tears sprang to her eyes as the tall figure resolved into that of the duke.

  Jumping to her feet, she picked up her candle and hurried to the door. She set the candle down on the entry table and shot back the bolt, then carefully pulled the door open. Rochford was turning off the street onto her walkway.

  “Sinclair!”

  He looked up at her and smiled. Francesca flew down the steps and launched herself at him. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and into him, and his mouth came down to meet hers.

  They stood that way for a long moment, their lips sealed together and the rest of the world lost to them. But finally Francesca recalled where they were and what she was doing, and she released him and stepped back, letting out a shaky little laugh.

  “I was so worried. Come in, come in….” She took his hand and led him inside, casting a glance around the darkened street.

  As they had the other time he had visited her late at night, they slipped quietly down the hallway to the cozy sitting room and closed the door behind them.

  “What happened?” she asked, turning to face him. “Did you see Perkins?”

  “I did.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. “Here is the note. I suggest that you burn it.”

  Almost unbelieving, Francesca reached her hand and took the piece of paper. She noticed that it trembled in her fingers. “You did not—you did not pay him, did you?”

  “No. I swear it.”

  “Or kill him?”

  A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Nor kill him. I persuaded the fellow to leave England. I do not think you will see him again.”

  “Oh, Sinclair!” Francesca raised a hand to her eyes, pressing it against them to stem the tears that threatened her. “I suppose it is very wrong—legally the house may be his—but I cannot feel anything but glad that you sent him away.”

  “The house is not his. Perkins admitted that the note was a forgery, just as I thought. Haughston was, God knows, mutton-headed enough to do it. But if Perkins had had this paper in his hands for the last seven years, he would have done something about it before now, even if he was in exile. Nor would he have been willing to accep
t money from you in lieu of taking the house. He would have gone straight to court with it when he returned home.”

  “Oh.” Francesca thought about it. “No doubt you are right. I could have fought him in court. I should have, instead of bothering you with it.”

  “You did exactly as you should have. If you had challenged him, he would have made you miserable with lies and gossip. The man is a snake. It was no bother to me. I am sorry only that you waited so long to tell me what was wrong. I would have liked to save you the weeks of worry.”

  His words, the gentle expression in his dark eyes, finally broke through her control. She began to cry.

  “Francesca…sweetheart, no…” He went to her, pulling her gently into his arms. “Do not cry.” He kissed the top of her head. “I meant to make you happy.”

  “I am!” Francesca let out a watery little laugh. “I am happier than I have been in—in so long.”

  He chuckled, his arms tightening around her, and he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “So happy that you cry.”

  “Exactly.”

  She pulled back a little and looked up into his face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her blue eyes shone as she gazed at him, full of tenderness and joy.

  He sucked in his breath sharply. “Francesca…”

  “You have been so kind, so good. I am more grateful to you than you can know.”

  “I do not want your gratitude,” he answered, his voice rough with emotion.

  “You have it anyway—and more. Much more.”

  Boldly she went up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his cheek. Her hands came up to cup his face, and for a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes. Then she rose again, her mouth moving to his.

  They kissed, lips hot and hungry, tongues tangling in a primal dance of desire. Heat surged between them.

  His hands went to her hips, moving restlessly over her, and he pulled her more tightly against him. Francesca wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing up into him, delighting in the hard feel of his body against her softness. A deep, formless yearning grew inside her, deepening with every brush of his fingers, every movement of his mouth. Her senses sprang to life as they had done only with him. Her skin was supremely sensitive, aware of the merest touch of air upon it. Sight, sound, smell—all were magnified until she felt almost overwhelmed with the rush of sensations.

  She slipped a hand up his neck, feeling the prickle of the short hairs at the back of his head, then the silken slide of the longer hair above that, thick and soft. She dug her fingers into his hair, letting the locks trail across her skin, pressing the pads of her fingers against the solidity of his skull.

  He moaned as she twined her fingers through his hair, and the sound sent desire leaping through her. Her heart slammed inside her chest, her pulse racing madly. His arms went tightly around her, almost bruising in their strength, as though he could meld their bodies together.

  It was, she realized, what she wanted—to feel him inside her, part of her, to be so entwined with him that there was no separation between them. She trembled, almost frightened by the intensity of her eagerness.

  “No.” He pulled away, gasping for air. “I don’t want you this way—you must not feel that you owe me anything.” He ran a hand back through his hair, taking a deep breath and visibly struggling to bring calm to his words. “I will not take advantage of you.”

  He looked at her, his black eyes so heated, so intense, that his very gaze sent desire lancing through her. “You do not need to repay me for what I did. That isn’t why—”

  “Hush.” She reached up and laid a finger against his lips. “I know that is not why you helped me.”

  She gazed at him, drinking in his beloved face, her senses stirred by the lines of desire etched on his features. “It is my own free choice. I want to.”

  She realized as she spoke how very true her words were. Despite the fear that lurked inside her, despite the dread of finding that this heat and hunger would once again disappear into cold ashes, despite all the reasons why they should not continue what they were doing, she wanted to. She wanted to more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Indeed, all she wanted in this world was him.

  With a smile, she stepped forward into his arms, her face turning up to meet his.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “FRANCESCA…” Her name shimmered with hunger and hope on his tongue, and he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up.

  He kissed her hungrily, desperately, and Francesca clung to him with equal fervor, returning kiss for kiss, her hands digging into his jacket. He was her anchor in a maelstrom of emotions and sensations. The creator of her hunger and, at the same time, the only one who could ease it.

  Untutored and clumsy with need, she moved her hands over his shoulders and up into his hair, desire increasing with every touch, driven by the awareness that it was not enough. She knew that it was his flesh she wanted to explore, his bare skin that her fingers trembled to touch. With a brazenness heretofore unknown to her, she slipped her hand beneath the edge of his jacket. The silk of his waistcoat was slick and cool beneath her fingers, and the texture of it sent tendrils of desire twisting down through her, but that was not enough, either.

  She wanted to touch him, feel him. Most of all, she wanted to have his hands on her.

  Sinclair set her down and reached back to pull off his jacket, flinging it carelessly to the floor. Francesca undid the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling a little in her haste and hunger. He ripped at his carefully arranged neckcloth and tossed it in the general direction of his jacket, following it an instant afterward with his waistcoat.

  He pulled her to him then as if he could wait no longer and pressed his mouth into hers. Francesca, no longer restricted by his outer garments, ran her hands over his back and chest. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin lawn of his shirt, but still she wanted more. Bunching his shirt up in her hands, she tugged until it came free of his breeches, and she slid her hands up under the cloth onto his bare skin.

  She felt his flesh twitch beneath her touch, felt the heat that flooded through him. She rubbed her hands over his back, then trailed them across it lightly, her fingernails barely scraping over his skin, testing and exploring, now digging in, now tracing the faintest of swirling patterns upon it.

  His breath hissed in sharply, and Francesca felt a tremor run through him. He dug his hands into her hair, sending pins popping loose and curls tumbling, and he kissed his way down her throat, lingering on the tender white flesh. His fingers went to the back of her dress, and he let out a low curse as the row of tiny pearl-like buttons impeded him.

  Francesca could not hold back a chuckle, and he raised his head, eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement, frustration and hunger.

  “You find that funny, eh?” he mock-growled.

  “I find it very familiar,” she returned, and then reached out to unfasten the ties of his shirt. “Much better to have these, I think.”

  His only reply was a murmur as he returned to kissing her neck, moving up this time to lay kisses in a line along her jaw up to her ear. His lips grazed her earring as they moved along the curve of her ear.

  He paused, then once again lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the earring. He traced his thumb across the jewel. “You are wearing the earrings I gave you.”

  Francesca blushed, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Yes.”

  Rochford looked into her eyes, his gaze searching. She could not read his expression, and a prickle of unease crept up her back. What if the earrings reminded him of the rift between them, the anger and resentment he must have felt when she broke off their engagement? What if he thought she was presuming too much?

  But he only smiled and said, “They are lovely on you.”

  He turned his head to look at her wrist, where the bracelet lay, then lifted her arm and placed a soft kiss upon her skin just above the jewels. Francesca felt her pulse jump beneath his mouth, betraying her.r />
  Rochford traced his finger across the bottom of her throat. “You need something there to match them, don’t you think?”

  Before she could protest, he bent and kissed the vulnerable hollow of her throat. Francesca’s eyes fluttered closed, and she hoped her knees would not give way. Funny, how one tender little gesture like that could turn her insides to wax.

  “Sinclair…” She smoothed her hand over his hair. “Oh, Sin.”

  His mouth left a hot trail up the side of her neck, and he nuzzled her ear, sending shivers through her. He murmured her name, his voice husky with desire.

  He had never been like this with her before, she thought—never so bold, so tempting…so hungry. Desire fountained in her in response, hot and swift. She slipped her hands beneath the edges of his open shirt and slid them outwards, exploring the ridged muscles and the smooth skin with its roughening of hair. Her fingertips found the small, hard masculine nipples and circled them.

  He made a noise low in his throat, and his mouth came back to claim hers. His fingers worked at the fastenings of her dress, making short work of the rest of her buttons—Francesca was rather sure that she heard a snap as a button or two popped off, as well as a rip here and there, but she did not care. All that mattered was that now his hands were on her skin, gliding across her back, bringing every inch of her flesh tinglingly alive.

  Sinclair pulled her dress down over her arms, and it fell to her feet. He bent to kiss her shoulder, then moved along the hard line of her collarbone, and finally down to the softly swelling mounds of her breasts. Francesca’s breath caught in her throat. Gently he edged down the lace of her chemise, and the movement of the fabric across her delicate skin was a caress. The top ruffle skimmed over her nipple, making it tighten.

  His eyes, heavy and dark with desire, were fixed on her breast, watching his fingers follow the path of the cloth. Francesca trembled at the touch of his skin on her nipple, and the bud hardened even more. He traced his fingertip around the rosy button, teasing it, and moisture pooled between her legs in response. The blossoming warmth there startled her, but then he bent and took the fleshy bud into his mouth, and all thought was lost to her.