Page 74 of The Courtship Dance

He hated her. Her clumsy rejection had cut him deeply. He would never forgive her.

Francesca cursed her own stupidity. She should have been better prepared. She should have known that Sinclair, with his engrained code of honor, would have felt duty-bound to offer marriage to her after he had slept with her. No matter what was reasonable or sound, he would give her the chance to retain her honor.

If she had given it any thought, instead of going blithely through her day, brimming with happiness, she would have realized that she needed to be prepared to deal with a marriage proposal. She could have marshalled her reasons and laid them out carefully. With a little forethought, she could have avoided the anger and the hurt.

But perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps nothing could have avoided what had happened. The fact was, she had been headstrong and impulsive. She had wanted him, had wanted to experience that intimate, vital pleasure with him, and she had been certain that she could make everything work out. She had let her desire rule her, and look at the result: She had lost Rochford—not only as a lover, but as a friend.

It was the bleakest fate she could think of. How was she to live without ever having his smile warm her again? Without him turning to her and raising an eyebrow in that maddening way? Never watching him take a fence as if he were all of a piece with his horse?

With a shaky sigh, Francesca closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. Perhaps after a few days…when his fury had had time to cool, when he was more likely to be reasonable, she could send him a letter and explain it all.

But no, it was probably better this way. She should let him go without trying to justify her actions. Put an end to it so that he could get back to his life. She should wrap up the Lilles wedding ring tomorrow and return it to him without any explanation.

But the thought pierced her like a knife. She was not sure that she had the strength to be so noble.

Tiredness overcame her finally, and she went to bed. But then, perversely, sleep would not come. She lay awake for long hours, simply staring into the dark and regretting her actions. When she did fall asleep, it seemed as though she jerked awake immediately.

Her eyes flew open, and she lay tensely, wondering what had awakened her. The house was in deep silence all around her, and after a long moment she closed her eyes again, telling herself that it was simply her own distress that had pulled her out of sleep.

A floorboard creaked then, and she rolled over. A dark male form loomed at the end of her bed. For an instant hope leaped into her heart. Sinclair!

But then the figure was rushing around the side of the bed, something dark in his arms, and she realized with horror that it was not Sinclair, coming to take her in his arms again, but Perkins.

She opened her mouth to scream, but something heavy and dark dropped around her, silencing her.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FRANCESCA SCREAMED, but she knew it was so muffled that no one would hear, and began to struggle wildly, trapped in the dark cloth, but her assailant hit her with his fist, dazing her enough that she went limp. He seized the momentary advantage and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder, and ran from the room. Francesca, hanging sickeningly upside down, the breath jouncing from her with every step he took, could bring forth only a muffled cry. She tried to struggle again, but with the blanket wrapped around her and secured by his arm tight around her legs, she could do little more than wriggle about as he thundered down the stairs.

As he flung open the front door, she thought she heard a cry from the back of the house, but with the crashing of the door, she could not be sure. The next thing she knew, she was unceremoniously dumped onto a hard floor, knocking the wind from her. She heard Perkins jump in after her and slam the door, and suddenly the floor beneath them was moving. She realized that he must have had a carriage waiting for them, and that they were now driving away at a fast pace.

Before she could recover her breath enough to tear away the blanket, Perkins himself jerked it from her. Roughly he pulled her up onto the seat and wrapped a sash around her wrists, tying them together in front of her. Francesca kicked at him and tried to pull away, but he was stronger, and though he cursed when her kicks connected, he did not pause in binding her hands.

She screamed, her wind having returned, but he ignored that, as well. She suspected that her cries would do little good; no doubt the rumbling of the carriage would cover most of the noise she made, and as for the rest of it—well, this was London, and who was going to give chase after a carriage simply because a few screams were heard from within?

When he had finished with her wrists, he reached into a pocket to pull out a handkerchief and stuffed it into her mouth, saying fiercely, “Shut up, damn you. Shut up! God, what a racket.”

He began to unfasten his cravat, and Francesca seized the opportunity to throw herself across the carriage away from him. She spat the handkerchief out of her mouth and released another shriek. He cursed and leaned down to pick up the handkerchief just as the carriage went around a corner. Perkins went sprawling on the floor.

Francesca aimed a swift kick at him. She intended to hit his head, but he was quick enough to twist away, and her blow landed on his shoulder instead. She did not waste time trying to disable him further. Instead she leaped for the door and turned the handle.

The carriage had lost speed as it rounded the corner, and now it slowed still more. As the door swung open, Francesca saw that they had entered the market area. In the predawn dark, merchants were setting up their goods in stalls all along the street, so the carriage could not continue at its previous fast clip.

She was still holding the door handle, intending to swing out of the carriage and jump, but at the last second she hesitated, afraid that the vehicle was still moving too quickly. Perkins, however, was scrambling up off the floor, and he lunged for her, so she leaped, whispering a frantic prayer that she would not roll back under the wheels.

She fell, not hitting the ground as she had feared, but crashing on her side into one of the stalls and landing on a bed of fruit. The stall keeper, who was unloading boxes of plums and berries, let out a cry of rage and dropped his crate.

He swung around and grabbed her arm, yanking her up from the ruins of his display. “Bloody ’ell, woman! Wot the divil do you think yer doin’?”

Francesca pulled with all her might. Behind her, she could hear Perkins yelling at the driver to stop. With a last burst of energy, fueled by fear, she tore her bound arms away from the fruit seller’s grasp and started to run.

The cobblestones were uneven and painful to her bare feet, and she realized that it was astonishingly difficult to run with her hands tied together. But she tore down the street as fast as she could. Behind her came a swell of shouts and catcalls, and one vendor let out a whistle and clapped his hands in encouragement as she ran past, as if he were watching a race.

But no one intervened to stop Perkins, and his footsteps grew louder and louder behind her. He threw himself at her, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Francesca bore the worst of their fall, with him on top of her, and once again the breath was knocked out of her. The impact jarred her whole body, bruising her side, and her head rang as her teeth clicked together sharply.

Perkins rolled to his feet and picked her up, carrying her back to the carriage. Francesca, struggling for breath, could not even protest, and her struggles were feeble.

“Hush, dear,” he told her in an infuriatingly calm voice. “I know you’re upset, but it will be all right.” He turned toward the bystanders, saying, “I beg your pardon for my wife. She is not herself lately. Lost our child, you see—I fear it has made her a little mad.”