Page 59 of The Courtship Dance

“Small compliment there!”

“Yet he was good enough for you to marry, whereas I wasn’t even worth a smile.” He closed the distance between them, and there was a dark look in his eyes that made Francesca back up a step. “If I came near you, you moved away. Just like now. If I paid you a compliment, you sneered at me. If I touched you, you shoved my hand aside.”

“What did you expect?” she retorted. “I was a married woman. I was not about to dally with you or any man. My husband was your friend. Only the basest sort would have made advances to his wife.”

“The basest sort, eh?” He took another step, and Francesca backed up again. The wall was behind her. She knew that if she retreated any more, she would come up against it, so she turned to move away.

But Perkins’ arm shot forward, his hand slapping into the wall, barring her passage. “Not so fast, my lady. I have a proposition for you.”

Francesca faced him. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, and her stomach was suddenly icy, but she would not let him see that he frightened her. She was sure that was precisely the reaction he was hoping for.

“And what might that be?” She was pleased at how coolly her voice came out.

“You can continue to live here. No rent. No two hundred pounds. I’ll even forgive the debt…after a while.” He smiled coldly, and there was a look in his eyes that made Francesca’s stomach turn. He raised his other hand and stroked his forefinger down her cheek. “All you have to do is…be mistress of the house.”

Francesca stared at him, too stunned to speak.

“Don’t look so shocked. It’s what women like you do every day, except you like to wrap it up in fancy words and ceremonies. You sell yourselves to live like this. You did it with Haughston. You’d do it with Rochford. If you want to stay here, you will do it with me.”

Francesca finally broke free of her paralysis, and she jerked away. “You must be joking!”

“No, that I’m not.” His voice was laced with amusement as he added mockingly, “If you will but think about it, I am sure that you will see the advantages for you.”

“I would never be your mistress,” Francesca spat back, the revulsion she felt written so clearly on her face that even in his inebriated state, he could see it. “I would rather starve than sleep with you!”

“Is that right?” His face went cold and hard, all the amusement leaving it, as his hand lashed out and grabbed her arm. “Why don’t we just see about that?”

He jerked her toward him so suddenly and roughly that Francesca stumbled and fell forward, coming up heavily against his chest. He let go of her, but only to wrap his arm around her and crush her to him. His other hand clamped down on her face, turning it up toward him.

Terror rushed through her, and she stamped down as hard as she could on his instep, grateful that she had worn slippers with a bit of a heel. His arm loosened automatically as he let out a small cry of pain, and she wrenched away from him.

She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the poker, swinging around to face him, her improvised weapon brandished in the air. “Get out of here or I’ll have you thrown out!”

“Really?” he sneered, starting toward her. “You think that old fool can throw me out? I’d like to see him try.”

“Stop! If you touch me, I shall have you thrown in gaol. Do you want to run for the Continent again?”

“You won’t be talking much once I’m done with you,” he told her, and the smile that spread across his face was cold with menace. He took another step toward her. “I’m going to enjoy taking you down a peg.”

He rushed at her then, and Francesca shrieked, swinging at him with all her strength. To her surprise, she managed to land a blow on his upper arm hard enough to make a satisfying thwack. But as she pulled back to strike again, he wrapped his fist around the poker and jerked it out of her grasp, tossing it behind him, where it crashed into a small table.

She screamed again and turned to run, and he lunged after her. However, the five glasses of blue ruin he had consumed before he came to see her impaired his judgment of distance, and he hooked a foot in the leg of a chair and stumbled, falling heavily to his knees. He struggled to his feet, but stopped short at the distinctive sound of a pistol cocking.

“Do not take another step unless you want a hole through you,” came Fenton’s voice, rather less calm than normal.

Both Francesca and her attacker swung around to face the speaker. Had she been less afraid, Francesca might have laughed at the sight of her aged butler standing there, crisp as ever, not a hair out of place, holding one of Andrew’s dueling pistols. Beside him, the cook wielded an iron skillet.

As they stood there, locked in a silent tableau, there came the sound of running footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, Maisie and the parlor-maid burst into the room. Maisie carried a pair of scissors, and the parlor-maid held a broom at ready. And last, there was the pot boy running in, gripping the cook’s cleaver in both hands.

Francesca’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her loyal servants. “Thank you, Fenton. Everyone. I think Mr. Perkins is leaving now.”

Perkins shot her a look filled with hatred. “You think you’ve won? You think I’m going to quietly fade away? You made your choice, and now you have to live with it. I withdraw my offer. You’ll have to beg me to service you now.”

“That will never happen!”

“You think not?” His face contorted with rage. “We’ll see how fine a tune you’re talking after I’ve tossed you out into the street. Humiliated in front of all your fine friends. Penniless, homeless, facing debtors’ prison…or worse.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I can see you now, trying to scrape by, living in a garret, freezing, hungry. What do you think you’ll do? Become a seam-stress, squinting your eyes out over your stitches, hands so cold you’ll get chilblains, because you can’t afford to heat your bare room? Or maybe you think you’ll turn to selling hats to the women who were once your friends.

“They won’t hire you, you know. Even for such lowly tasks. You can swallow your pride, mayhap, and go looking for work, but no one will take you. You aren’t smart enough to be a governess, and no sane wife would hire you anyway. You can’t sew well enough to do that, either. Scrub floors? Cook? Wash dishes?” He sneered. “You haven’t got any skills, my lady. The only way you could make a living is on your back.”