Page 68 of The Courtship Dance

“You find that funny, eh?” he mock-growled.

“I find it very familiar,” she returned, and then reached out to unfasten the ties of his shirt. “Much better to have these, I think.”

His only reply was a murmur as he returned to kissing her neck, moving up this time to lay kisses in a line along her jaw up to her ear. His lips grazed her earring as they moved along the curve of her ear.

He paused, then once again lifted his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the earring. He traced his thumb across the jewel. “You are wearing the earrings I gave you.”

Francesca blushed, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Yes.”

Rochford looked into her eyes, his gaze searching. She could not read his expression, and a prickle of unease crept up her back. What if the earrings reminded him of the rift between them, the anger and resentment he must have felt when she broke off their engagement? What if he thought she was presuming too much?

But he only smiled and said, “They are lovely on you.”

He turned his head to look at her wrist, where the bracelet lay, then lifted her arm and placed a soft kiss upon her skin just above the jewels. Francesca felt her pulse jump beneath his mouth, betraying her.

Rochford traced his finger across the bottom of her throat. “You need something there to match them, don’t you think?”

Before she could protest, he bent and kissed the vulnerable hollow of her throat. Francesca’s eyes fluttered closed, and she hoped her knees would not give way. Funny, how one tender little gesture like that could turn her insides to wax.

“Sinclair…” She smoothed her hand over his hair. “Oh, Sin.”

His mouth left a hot trail up the side of her neck, and he nuzzled her ear, sending shivers through her. He murmured her name, his voice husky with desire.

He had never been like this with her before, she thought—never so bold, so tempting…so hungry. Desire fountained in her in response, hot and swift. She slipped her hands beneath the edges of his open shirt and slid them outwards, exploring the ridged muscles and the smooth skin with its roughening of hair. Her fingertips found the small, hard masculine nipples and circled them.

He made a noise low in his throat, and his mouth came back to claim hers. His fingers worked at the fastenings of her dress, making short work of the rest of her buttons—Francesca was rather sure that she heard a snap as a button or two popped off, as well as a rip here and there, but she did not care. All that mattered was that now his hands were on her skin, gliding across her back, bringing every inch of her flesh tinglingly alive.

Sinclair pulled her dress down over her arms, and it fell to her feet. He bent to kiss her shoulder, then moved along the hard line of her collarbone, and finally down to the softly swelling mounds of her breasts. Francesca’s breath caught in her throat. Gently he edged down the lace of her chemise, and the movement of the fabric across her delicate skin was a caress. The top ruffle skimmed over her nipple, making it tighten.

His eyes, heavy and dark with desire, were fixed on her breast, watching his fingers follow the path of the cloth. Francesca trembled at the touch of his skin on her nipple, and the bud hardened even more. He traced his fingertip around the rosy button, teasing it, and moisture pooled between her legs in response. The blossoming warmth there startled her, but then he bent and took the fleshy bud into his mouth, and all thought was lost to her.

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.