by Candace Camp
There would be whispered rumors, perhaps, but as long as they were careful—and given Rochford’s reputation as a crack shot—it would not be blown up into a scandal. Even if it was, well—that was something she was willing to risk. It would be her reputation that would suffer the damage, after all, not his.
It would be hard, she knew, to give him up eventually, but she was willing to risk that, as well. She was determined to seize this moment of happiness. Afterwards, of course, she would do the right thing; she would not damage Rochford’s life. But for now, she intended to enjoy her bit of pleasure.
She sailed through the day on a cloud of happiness. Once she was dressed, she went downstairs and called the servants together in the kitchen. She thanked them for their efforts on her behalf the evening before and assured them that the problem with Mr. Perkins had been taken care of. He would not, she told them with a smile, be coming around again.
Their relief was obvious, though she could also see that a good deal of curiosity remained. However, she was not about to explain about running to Rochford or what he had done to get rid of Perkins. She might tell Maisie some of it later. A woman’s personal maid was, after all, the person from whom it was most difficult to keep secrets. But for now she wanted to hug to herself everything regarding the duke. She suspected that any talk of him would bring a glow to her face that would reveal the truth.
She tried to go about her daily tasks, but she found it hard to concentrate. She sat down at her desk to update her correspondence, which had been dreadfully tardy of late. She should have written to Constance days ago. However, as soon as she pulled out paper and started to write, she found her thoughts drifting away to Sinclair and the way he smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, or to things they had done the evening before. And those sorts of thoughts soon had her pulse racing and warmth blossoming deep within her.
She pulled her wayward thoughts back and started to write again, but after a while she gave it up and decided to take on a task that required less concentration. She turned instead to her mending, but it soon became apparent that darning stockings and sewing on ruffles kept her no more occupied than letter-writing.
Afternoon callers would, she reasoned, make the time pass more quickly, but she soon found that having visitors was the worst way of passing the time, for she had to struggle to appear to be listening and interested. At least no one had seen when she dropped her mending in her lap and started gazing sightlessly at the wall, a dreamy smile playing on her lips as she recalled Sinclair’s kisses.
She lost the thread of the conversation so many times that one of her callers asked her if she was feeling unwell, and a later one gave her an icy look when she left. Then the Duke of Rochford came to call.
Fenton announced him as she was sitting in her drawing room with Lady Feringham and her daughter. Francesca’s heart leaped into her throat, and she jumped to her feet before she realized what she had done. Gravely, trying to look as if she rose for every visitor, she bowed her head to the butler, saying, “Please, show him in.”
She dared not glance at Lady Feringham or her daughter as she braced herself to see Sinclair again. She must not let anything of what had happened between the two of them show in her face. Discretion, after all, must be her watchword.
Rochford walked into the room after the butler, and Francesca saw the flicker of dismay on his face when he noticed her other visitors. He checked at the doorway before continuing into the room and bowing to her.
“Lady Haughston.”
“Rochford. How very pleasant to see you,” she greeted him, her voice carefully even. Her cheeks were a little warm, and she hoped that she was not blushing—at least not deeply enough that the others would notice.
She extended her hand to him. She wanted desperately to feel his touch, yet she knew that she must not allow any of that to be seen on her face. His fingers closed around hers, and she felt him squeeze briefly before he released her hand. She allowed herself one glance up into his eyes; it was all she could do to tear her own eyes away.
She gave a bright, general smile and gestured vaguely toward one of the chairs. “Do sit down. You know Lady Feringham and her daughter, Lady Cottwell, I believe.”
“Yes, of course.” Rochford bowed to the other women and greeted them politely while Francesca sat down and sought to gather her composure around her.
It was absurd, she told herself, that all she could think about right now was the way Rochford had looked looming above her, his skin slick with sweat, his breath ragged, his eyes black as the pit, as he plunged into her.
She slipped out her handkerchief and dabbed surreptitiously at her face. Was anyone else looking heated, or was it just her? She wondered if it would appear odd if she called for Fenton to open another of the windows.
The room was silent, and Francesca glanced around, realizing that something was amiss. From the expectant looks on the others’ faces, she knew that they were waiting for some response from her.
“I—I beg your pardon. I fear my mind, um, wandered for a bit. I was thinking that it seemed a bit warm. Shall I have a window opened?”
“Oh, no, it’s quite pleasant,” the younger visitor assured her. “I had just asked you whether you enjoyed Lady Smythe-Fulton’s rout last week. I found it such a crush, I confess.”
“Indeed. But is that not the goal of a rout?” Francesca asked with a smile, doing her best to recall anything about the party. That was not where she had watched Rochford talk to Mary Calderwood, was it? No, surely that had been the Haversley soiree. She could remember almost nothing of that evening except with whom the duke had chatted and the praise Lady Mary had heaped upon him.
She sneaked another glance at Rochford. He was watching her, and there was something in his gaze that made her skin flare with heat. She tried to give him an admonitory glare, but she feared that it did not come out looking that way at all. When were these women going to leave? Had they not been here long past the polite limit for an afternoon call?
But still Lady Feringham prattled on. She had gone on to a discussion of Lord Chesterfield’s new phaeton, which his youngest son had apparently wrecked only this morning in an absurd race with Mr. William Arbuthnot. Francesca did her best to gasp and sigh and smile in all the right places, but she could not keep her eyes from straying back time and again to the duke.
She was swept with relief when at last Lady Feringham announced that they must take their leave. She could only hope that they did not see the joy flare in her eyes as she rose to bid goodbye to them.
When they were gone, Francesca whirled back to Rochford, who came to her in two quick strides and grasped both her hands in his, bringing them up to his lips and planting a hard, brief kiss on the knuckles of each one.
“I was beginning to think that they had taken root here,” he told her between kisses.
Francesca let out a giddy little laugh. “As did I. Oh, Sinclair…”
She let out his name on a sigh, gazing up into his face, her own features glowing as if lit from within.
He let out an oath under his breath and drew her into his arms, bending to kiss her fiercely. When they at last emerged from the embrace sometime later, Francesca’s face was rosy and her eyes shining, her lips soft and almost bruised-looking.
“When you look at me like that, I forget all else,” he told her hoarsely. “We must talk.”
“Must we?” she retorted lightly, grinning in a deliberately provocative way. “I can think of a number of things I would rather do.”
“Vixen.” He raised her hand again and turned it over to press a kiss into her palm. “You know that I would, as well. But I have to tell you—”
There was the sound of a discreet cough in the hallway, and they sprang apart, Rochford swinging away to inspect the mantel as though it held some deep fascination for him. Francesca grimaced, but composed her expression and turned to face her butler.
“Yes, Fenton?”
“Mrs. Frederick Wilberfo
rce to see you, madam.”
She would dearly have liked to instruct him to tell the woman that she was not at home, but she knew that Mrs. Wilberforce must have seen the other callers leaving, and if she was then turned away, her feelings would be hurt. Mrs. Wilberforce, having “married up,” was especially sensitive to any sort of slight.
Suppressing a sigh, Francesca instructed Fenton to send the woman in. She turned back to Sinclair, saying in a low tone, “I am so sorry.”
He shook his head, giving her a crooked little smile, and said, “I will wait.”
Francesca turned back to smile at the woman entering the room. She hoped that there was nothing in her face to reveal what she had been doing before Mrs. Wilberforce arrived. Certainly, her pulse was still thundering, and she dared not look over at the duke.
Fortunately, Rochford knew Mrs. Wilberforce’s husband, who hailed from a town near the duke’s property in Cornwall, and he was able to engage her for a few minutes in a conversation about the man. After that, it was slow going. For once Francesca was unable to summon up the usual social chatter to aid her. All she could think of was her desire for the woman to leave and allow her to be alone with Sinclair.
When she left, Francesca thought, she would tell Fenton that she was no longer receiving visitors. However, she was not sure what excuse she could make for Sinclair’s continued presence. By the rules of polite behavior, of course, he should leave before Mrs. Wilberforce. He had already been here longer than was customary for an afternoon call. She wondered if Mrs. Wilberforce would notice or would be too overawed by talking to a duke to even be aware that he had made a social misstep.
Finally, surprising her, Sinclair rose, saying that he must take his leave of them. It was all Francesca could do not to utter a protest. She managed a brittle smile, however, and gave him her hand.
“It was so good of you to come,” she told him stiffly.
He smiled. “I hope to return soon.”
Her eyes flew up to his at his words, and she saw a smile lurking in their dark depths. “Oh. Well, yes, please do. I should like very much to show you my garden.”
He grinned. “I am sure it is beautiful. Good day, Lady Haughston.”
“Duke.”
She waited out the rest of Mrs. Wilberforce’s visit with a barely concealed frustration. The woman chattered on at length about the duke’s graciousness and pleasant manner, his lack of arrogance, his handsome looks, until Francesca was ready to scream. Instead she smiled and nodded like an automaton, but offered few words of her own; the last thing she wanted was to lengthen the conversation.
As soon as Mrs. Wilberforce departed, Francesca slipped down the hallway and out the back door to the small garden behind her house. It was enclosed by walls, but beside her house, leading to the servants’ entrance, was a narrow walkway that ended at the gate into the garden. She made her way to the gate now, hoping that she and Sinclair had understood one another in their leave-taking conversation.
Though it offered no handle on the outside, the garden gate could be opened from within. Francesca lifted the bar now and swung it open. The duke stood just outside, leaning negligently against the wall of the house.
She let out a laugh of sheer delight as he ducked inside, closing the gate behind him, and swept her up into his arms. They kissed, moving in a slow, shuffling circle, and Francesca clung to him, lost in a haze of passion.
Several long minutes passed before Rochford set her back down on her feet, and for a goodly time after that, she was still too dazed to speak. He took her hand and led her deeper into the garden, stopping finally at a bench. It was a lovely spot, sheltered by the garden wall and perfumed by the roses growing in profusion beside it, and Francesca sank down onto it happily, planning to snuggle against his side, his arm curled around her shoulders.
When Sinclair did not sit down beside her, she glanced up at him, puzzled. “Come, sit down with me.” She smiled invitingly, holding out a hand to him.
He shook his head, his face settling into serious lines. “I came here to talk to you, and I find that if I am close to you, I forget all my intentions.”
Francesca’s smile deepened, her long dimple popping into her cheek. “I don’t mind.”
He could not keep from smiling back, but he said, “No. Not this time. I intend to get out what I have to say before someone else interrupts us.”
Francesca sighed. “Very well. Go on.”
He looked at her, started to speak, then stopped, and began again. “I have no facility with this.” He drew a breath. “Lady Haughston…”
“Lady Haughston!” Francesca repeated, starting to laugh. “How did we come to that?” She went cold as she took in the grave look on his face. “Sinclair, what is it? What are you trying to say?”
She was suddenly certain that he was here to tell her that he regretted what had happened the night before, that he could not let her distract him from his purpose of finding a duchess. Her fingers knotted in her lap, and she looked down at them, trying to school herself not to cry.
“Francesca,” he corrected himself. “You must know of my regard for you—of my hope that—Oh, the devil take it! I am asking you to marry me!”
Francesca stared at him, struck silent. Of all the horrid certainties that had flooded in upon her at his serious tone, this had not even occurred to her.
He glanced at her, then let out a low growl. “Bloody hell! I’ve made a complete botch of it.” He dropped down on one knee in front of her. “I am sorry. Francesca, please…” He reached in his pocket and took out a small box, extending it toward her. “Would you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”
She found her tongue at last. “No!” She jumped to her feet, staring at him in horror. “Sinclair, no! I cannot marry you!”
His face closed, and he rose to his feet. “Again? You are refusing me again?”
“No! Sinclair, no. Pray do not be angry—”
“What the bloody hell do you expect me to be?” he lashed out. “What was last night about? Your gratitude? Thank you, but I did not need a payment!”
Francesca’s head snapped back as though he had hit her, and her cheeks flared with color. “I did not pay you! I gave myself to you because—” She stopped, unable to expose her love to him when he was staring at her so stonily.
His eyebrows shot up. “Yes? Because?” He grimaced and swung away. “My God, what an idiot I’ve been.” He took a few steps from her, then whirled back to pierce her with his black gaze. “What did you intend? One night? Two?”
“No. I— Just not marriage.”
“An affair?” He appeared, if possible, even more thunderstruck. “Are you telling me that you thought we would skulk about, hiding our relationship from everyone? What was I to do? Marry another and all the while carry on an affair behind my wife’s back? Is that what you think of me? Is that the sort of man I seem to you?”
Tears choked Francesca. “No! No, please, Sinclair…”
“Sweet Jesu! I thought you cared for me. I thought that, after all these years, you had realized—that you wanted—” He let out an oath, followed by a bitter laugh. “How many times can a man play the fool for you?” He shook his head. “Well, this is the last, I assure you. Goodbye, my lady, I will not bother you any further.”
Francesca stood frozen in horror for a moment, then started after him. “Sinclair, wait! No!”
He whipped back around and tossed the box in his hand onto the ground in front of her. “Here. Add this to your collection.”
He strode off to the gate, flung it open and was gone. The gate crashed shut behind him, leaving the garden in a ringing silence.
Francesca could not think, could not move. She began to shake, and tears rushed from her eyes. This could not be happening! He could not have walked out of her life like this!
She dropped to her knees, suddenly too weak to remain standing. Despite the warmth of the summer afternoon, she was chilled to the bone, and an uncontrollable tremblin
g shook her body. She reached out, picked up the small box he had dropped and opened it. A ring lay inside, simple and elegant, a large pear-shaped yellow diamond. The Lilles diamond, the wedding ring of the Duchesses of Rochford.
Her fingers curled around it, and she sagged to the ground, clutching the ring to her chest.
“MY LADY? MY LADY?” Maisie’s voice sounded close to Francesca’s ear. “What is amiss? Are you ill?”
Francesca opened her eyes and looked up to see her maid kneeling over her, peering down into her face with worried eyes. Francesca blinked. She could not have said how long she had lain there, spent and despairing.
She sat up dazedly, realizing that she still held the small jewelry box clutched tightly in her fist, and that her fist was still pressed to her heart. “I am fine, Maisie. Do not worry.”
“My lady, what happened? Bess saw you lying out here, and she screeched fit to wake the dead. She thought you’d been struck down.”
Francesca swallowed. “I have been. But not in the way you think.” She rose to her knees, and Maisie took her arm to help her up.
“Fenton thought His Grace was out here with you earlier. He never… He didn’t do this to you, did he?”
“No! No, he would never hit me. No. I did this to myself, I fear.” Francesca tried to smile at her maid, but she knew that her effort was not successful. “I believe that I will go up to my room now. Really, I am all right. Tell the others not to worry. I am merely…tired.”
“It’s not that blackguard back again, is it?” Maisie persisted as they walked to the back door.
“Perkins?” Francesca shook her head. “No. He is gone for good. I have just…mishandled something very badly. I think—” Tears welled in her eyes. “I think the duke will not be here again.”