Page 61 of The Courtship Dance

“No!” Francesca cried, holding out a hand to stop him.

She knew that the fellow must take her for a prostitute or some other low creature, and she understood why. No respectable woman would show up on a gentleman’s doorstep like this, certainly not unaccompanied. But she could not let him keep her out.

“Fetch Cranston,” she told him, and the combination of her cultured voice and the use of the butler’s name must have given the man pause, for he hesitated.

“Wait here,” he said finally, closing the door, and a few minutes later the door opened to reveal Rochford’s starched, efficient butler.

Cranston peered out the door at her, his expression full of disdain until she reached up and pushed back her hood far enough that he could see her face. His eyes widened. “My lady!”

“Please, I must see him,” she said in a low voice.

“Of course, of course, please come in. I am so sorry.”

Francesca pulled her hood forward again, not eager to let any of the other servants glimpse her face, and Cranston led her quickly down the hall to Rochford’s study. The room was empty, but the butler ushered her inside and took her cloak.

“I will inform His Grace immediately that you are here,” he assured her, no trace of the curiosity he must feel registering on his carefully blank face.

“Thank you, Cranston.”

He left, closing the door behind him. Francesca turned away. The frantic despair that had sent her flying to Rochford was ebbing now, giving way to doubt. What would he think of her, coming to him this way?

There was the sound of hurrying footsteps in the hall outside, and the duke rushed in, frowning. His eyes went to her, taking in at once her tear-streaked face and tense posture.

“Francesca! My God. What happened?” He swung the door shut behind him and came to her, hands outstretched. “Are you ill? Is it Dom? Selbrooke?”

She shook her head. “No, no, it is none of that.”

He took her hands in his, and they felt so warm and strong that tears sprang into her eyes and she let out a single shuddering sob. “I’m sorry! I should not have come here, but I didn’t know what to do!”

“Of course you should come to me,” he told her, leading her over to the small sofa and pulling her down onto it with him. “Where else should you go? Just tell me what is wrong.”

“And you will take care of it for me?” she asked, trying to smile, but she could feel it wobble.

“I will strive my utmost to do so,” he assured her.

Suddenly she was crying. She tried to hold it back; she would have said that she had no tears left to cry. But the kindness in his smile, the concern in his eyes, pierced her, and the tears came flooding out.

“Oh, Sinclair, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—I’m so scared—”

“Francesca, dearest…” He pulled her over and into his lap, cradling her in his arms.

The endearment, the comfort of his embrace, somehow broke her heart, and she sobbed, burying her face in his chest, her hand digging into his lapels. She cried, unable to speak or even think coherently.

He stroked her back and head, his hands knocking loose some of the curls that Maisie had so carefully arranged. He murmured soft, soothing sounds as his hands moved gently over her. Francesca’s sobs gradually began to wind down. Her breathing slowed, and the tears stopped. She leaned against his chest, comforted by his strong arms around her, the steady thump of his heart beneath her ear.

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.