Page 67 of The Courtship Dance

“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.