by Candace Camp
Francesca moaned, catching her lower lip between her teeth, and the noise seemed to excite him further. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up, as he pulled her nipple deeper into his mouth. He sucked at it gently, his tongue circling and caressing, driving the hunger in her ever higher. With each movement of his mouth, the heat deep in her abdomen grew, moist and pulsing, aching for fulfillment. She wanted to wrap her legs around him, to move against him in a way that would have made her blush if she had thought of it at any other time.
Roughly, he dragged down the other side of her chemise and turned his attention to that breast. Francesca had to suppress a whimper, and her fingers dug into his arms.
Finally he let her slide back down his body to the floor, and his hands swept over her buttocks in a parting caress, his fingers digging into the fleshy mounds and pressing her flush against the hard ridge of his desire. With a wantonness that would have shocked her a few weeks ago, Francesca moved her hips, rubbing herself against him, and she smiled with satisfaction at the swift and unmistakable response of his body.
He tugged at the ribbon that fastened her chemise. Stretched as it had been, the bow had tightened, turning into a knot, but after a few seconds struggle, the narrow ribbon ripped, releasing her. Impatiently, he shoved the garment back from her shoulders and down. Stepping out of her slippers, Francesca reached back to untie the ribbons of her petticoat and pantaloons, circumventing the destruction of any further ties at his hand.
Her underclothes slid down to pool at her feet. Sinclair’s eyes moved slowly downward, taking in every inch of her body. Francesca remembered her embarrassment the first time her husband had looked upon her naked body in bed, the urge she had felt to cover herself before him and the impatience with which he had shoved her hands away.
It made the heat rise in her face to stand like this beneath Sinclair’s gaze, but she knew that only a small part of it came from any embarrassment, for her body flamed with desire at the touch of his eyes as surely as if his hands had swept over her.
He shrugged off his opened shirt, and Francesca found herself exploring the naked expanse of his chest with her eyes just as eagerly as he had looked at her. She wanted, she realized with a twinge of surprise, to see even more of him. More than that, she was filled with a yearning to touch him, to kiss and caress him. Something deep within her longed to know him in every possible way, to possess and be possessed by him, to become a part of him.
She watched as he quickly divested himself of his boots, then the rest of his clothes, the throb of her pulse quickening with every garment that slid down his skin. He came to her then, taking her by the hands, and knelt on the floor, pulling her with him. Francesca lay back upon the tangle of her petticoats, her hair spreading out around her like a shimmering golden fan.
She tightened a little, thinking, Now is when it will come—the cold, the indifference, even disgust. This would be the moment when she learned that nothing had changed inside, nothing was different with Sinclair. She would grow stiff, and the warm pleasure in her loins would melt away, and she would know that she had been mad to think that it could end any other way.
Rochford lay on his side next to her, propped up on his forearm, and he gazed down at her, his eyes searching her face. “I always dreamed of making love to you in my bed, of seeing your hair spread out over my pillows.”
He ran his hand across her hair, then brought it back to caress her cheek and throat, saying, “But I want you too much to wait.”
Lowering his head, he kissed her slowly and tenderly, his mouth moving with a gentle lack of haste that was at odds with the words he had spoken. But Francesca sensed the barely leashed passion that lay beneath his actions. It was there in his thrumming pulse, the quick intake of his breath, the searing heat of his skin. She knew that he was restraining himself by force of will, like a dam holding back the floodwaters, tamping down his desire in order to savor the pleasure of each moment.
And all she felt was that same delight. Her body warmed, and the tightness relaxed. There was no trepidation, no anxiety. She was floating on pleasure, reveling in emotions she had never expected to feel.
Francesca trailed her hand up his arm, learning the texture of his skin—the tender skin on the inner side of his elbow, the firmness of muscle beneath his upper arm, the faint coarseness of hair. Her fingertips tingled from touching him, sending tendrils of desire wriggling down through her abdomen. She let her hand stray up onto his shoulder and over his back as far as she could reach.
How could she ever have feared that this would not be wonderful? Yet even as she thought it, she reminded herself that things might change at any moment, that Sinclair would leave off kissing and stroking her and would shove himself between her legs, eager for his fulfillment.
When he lifted his head, she thought it would change then, but he left her mouth only to explore her neck and chest, his lips and tongue tasting and teasing her skin, arousing her more with each kiss. As his mouth moved over her, his hand slid down her body, caressing her in slow, lingering strokes.
Her legs moved restlessly at the touch of his hand, and the ache between her legs grew and pulsed, flooding with passion. His mouth crept over her breast, moving slowly, inexorably toward the nipple, and anticipation grew in her. She waited for him to take the hard bud into his mouth once more, and with each touch of his tongue, his lips, his teeth, the eagerness heightened and swelled until she was taut as a bowstring, her skin damp and her breath rasping in her throat. She dug her fingertips into his shoulders, aware of a primitive urge to rake her fingernails down his back and sink them into the soft flesh of his buttocks.
Then, at last, his mouth closed around her nipple, velvety soft and damp, and he began to suckle, pulling at the sensitive button of flesh with long, hot strokes. Francesca could not hold back a moan of satisfaction, so intense it was almost painful, and her hips moved on the bed of her petticoats.
Answering her unspoken urging, Sinclair’s hand slid up her thigh and over onto the flat plain of her abdomen, circling and inching closer to the thatch of hair between her legs. His fingertips edged into the silky triangle, tangling in the hair, and gliding to the center and down into the slick, heated folds of flesh. Francesca jerked and tried to move away, embarrassed that he should feel the unusual flood of moisture there.
But his searching fingers followed her, gliding insistently over her, pressing into her in a way that made her gasp and dig her heels into the floor. Then his clever fingers were parting and exploring her in the most intimate way, stroking over the supremely sensitive nub of flesh until she was almost wild with hunger, her hips circling and pressing up against his hand. Soft whimpers of passion escaped her lips, and she turned her head to muffle the sounds against his arm.
Something was building inside her, a hard, aching knot of yearning, until she felt, desperately, as if she were going to scream. Then it burst within her, and she did cry out, sinking her teeth in his arm. A tidal wave of pleasure washed through her, and she trembled under the force of it, lost in the pure physical sensation.
She heard him groan, and he rested his head against her chest for a moment, as though fighting for control. And when, at last, she lay limp and languid beneath him, rendered utterly nerveless, he moved over her, parting her legs. She opened her legs to him eagerly, for despite the mind-numbing satisfaction of what she had just experienced, there was still an ache, a hunger that would not be filled until she took him inside her.
But he did not move into her just yet. Instead, propping himself on his elbows, he began a leisurely pleasuring of her other breast, kissing and teasing it, taking the nipple into his mouth and repeating the slow, hard suction. To her amazement, the tension began to rise in her again—if anything, she was more eager this time, knowing what waited at the end.
He pulled back, blowing a soft breath of air upon the damp berry-colored nipple and causing it to prickle and lengthen, and he teased the other nipple between his forefinger and thumb
, rolling and gently tugging. The hunger built in her until she was almost sobbing with need.
She moaned his name, and her hands drifted down his back to his buttocks, caressing the fleshy mounds. “Please,” she murmured. “Please…”
He moved into her then, lifting her hips and pressing slowly, steadily into her. She gasped at the sensation as he filled her, shocked by the sense of completion, the wonderful rightness of the joining. Sinclair began to stroke within her, pulling almost out, then thrusting back in, creating an intense, delightful friction that pushed the tension inside her ever higher. Then, once more, she convulsed, and this time she did indulge her primitive desire, raking his back with her nails and digging her fingers into his buttocks.
Sinclair let out a hoarse cry, jerking against her, and they met in a cataclysm of passion. Francesca wrapped her arms and legs around him, clinging to him as the storm engulfed them.
HE WAS A HEAVY WEIGHT upon her, his face pressed into the crook of her shoulder, but Francesca did not mind the pressure. She was so buoyant with joy that she was not sure she would not simply float away otherwise.
She held on to him tightly, reveling in the feel of his body upon hers, his skin hot and damp, his breath tickling her neck.
Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled over, trickling down her face, and she reached up to wipe them away.
“Francesca?” He rolled away from her then, gazing down into her face, a frown forming on his brow. “What is it? Are you crying?”
She nodded, embarrassed, and gulped back her tears.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“No! Oh, no,” she hastened to assure him. “I don’t know why I’m crying—it was just so beautiful.” She began to tear up again, and she dashed the moisture away impatiently with her hand. “Oh, bother…”
He chuckled, his voice rich with satisfaction, and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her back against his chest so that they lay curled together like spoons in a drawer. He nuzzled into her hair and pressed a brief kiss on the back of her neck. “It was beautiful.”
“I have never felt anything like that before. I thought—” She stopped, suddenly realizing that per haps she was giving away too much.
“Never?” There was astonishment in his voice. “You mean…” He paused, then went on thoughtfully, “You mean you never felt—Oh, blast, I cannot think of any genteel way to put it—you never reached satisfaction before?”
She shook her head. Her voice was small as she replied, “No. I know you must find me very odd. And, really, there is no point in talking about it.”
Why had she ever brought this subject up? she wondered, cursing her own thoughtlessness. There was no reason for Sinclair to know about her former coldness. It was bound to make him wonder about her.
“I don’t find you odd at all,” he replied, kissing her hair again. “I find you—” he trailed his hand down her side, following the curves of her waist and hips “—delectable.” He laid another kiss on the point of her shoulder. “What I don’t understand is your late husband.”
“It was so different with him. I—I hated it!” Her vehemence shocked her a little. “I am sorry—I know you must think I’m terrible.” She pressed her lips together, trying to stem the flow of words.
“Of course I don’t think that.” He pulled her even closer into his body, surrounding her with his warmth and strength. “I think Lord Haughston must have been an even greater ass than I realized.”
The words poured out of her now, and she seemed helpless to stop them. “Andrew said that I was cold, an ice princess. I tried not to be, but I could not help it. It was…it wasn’t at all like tonight. I hated for him to touch me. I know I was a terrible wife. I should not have married him. I did not love him. I tried to make myself think I did, but as soon as we were wed, I knew what a dreadful mistake I had made. It was so awkward and—and painful. I cried half my wedding night.” She swallowed, then added lightly, “’Tis no wonder, I suppose, that he found me unappealing. Or that he turned to other women. I made a horrible mess of it all.”
“Stop it,” Sinclair told her crisply. He went up on his elbow, pulling her over onto her back, so that he could look down into her face. “Listen to me. You are a lovely, extremely passionate woman. I detected not the slightest sign of coldness in you. You are utterly desirable, and whatever that fool Haughston told you, there was no fault in you.” He bent and kissed her, hard and fast. “Understand?”
She nodded, a blush creeping along her cheekbones.
He stroked his knuckles along her cheek, his face softening. “I am sorry for your unhappiness. For the pleasure you didn’t know. But I am a base enough fellow that I cannot help but be glad that he never…had this with you.” He smiled, his dark eyes lighting wickedly. “And I am…well, I am quite detestably smug and self-satisfied to know that you found satisfaction with me and not him.”
Sinclair bent to kiss her again. “Furthermore,” he went on, punctuating his words with kisses across her face and down her neck, “I intend to devote a good deal of my time to showing you exactly how lacking you are in coldness.”
A little gurgle of laughter escaped her. “Do you now?”
“Indeed. I shall make it my solemn mission. We shall discover exactly all the things that excite you.” He trailed a finger down her body, skimming over her breasts, smiling a little at the tightening response of her nipples. “It will take some time and effort, I fear, but I think it is my duty to discover each one.”
He bent and brushed a kiss on each hardened point.
“You are a very dedicated man,” Francesca told him.
“I am,” he agreed, his hand drifting lower.
She drew her breath in a little gasp, arching up at the sudden sizzle through her body. Her eyes clouded over in desire as she murmured, “Already?”
“Mmm. I believe so.” His voice turned husky. “I think it is imperative that I begin my research immediately. I would not have it said that I shirked my duty.”
“No…” She sighed on a new wave of pleasure as his fingers sought out the very center of her passion. “We cannot have that.”
He kissed her, and everything else faded from her mind.
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 su
ddenly 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.