Page 66 of The Courtship Dance

But no matter how much she reassured herself, Francesca could not vanquish her fear. If anything happened to Sinclair because of her, she did not know what she would do. The thought was crushing.

She closed her eyes, clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. She should not have gone to Rochford. It had been foolish. Selfish.

Yet she knew that she could not have done anything else. And if she were somehow given the chance to do it all again, she would undoubtedly do the same thing. The fact was, in all the world, out of all her family and friends, it was Rochford to whom she would always turn when she was in trouble.

And that, she realized, was the central truth of her life. Rochford knew her better than anyone. He was the rock at the center of her world, the one person on whom she could rely.

She had ignored that fact for years, denied it, done her best to pretend that it was otherwise. She had lived as another man’s wife, faithful to him in every way except the one that mattered most. Her heart belonged to Sinclair, and it always had.

It always would.

She did not fool herself that there could be any future for them. It was clear that Rochford felt some degree of passion for her—given his kisses and caresses, it would be hard to deny that fact. But she was wise enough to know that passion did not mean love, and it most certainly did not mean marriage.

Francesca had lost any hope of those things when she broke off their engagement. The duke was too proud a man to propose a second time to a woman who had jilted him. Even if, by some wild stretch of the imagination, she could believe that he would want to marry her, it would be a dereliction of his duty to his name and family for him to marry a barren widow.

No, Rochford knew where his responsibility lay, and he would marry the sort of woman he had to. Why else had he committed himself to finding a bride?

She would have no satisfaction from her love. But still, there was something deep inside her that could not help but warm to the knowledge. Her heart had been a cold thing in her chest for so many years that it was a heady experience to have it swell again with sweet emotion.

She leaned forward, spotting a man walking toward her house. She waited tensely as he came closer.

“Sinclair!” Tears sprang to her eyes as the tall figure resolved into that of the duke.

Jumping to her feet, she picked up her candle and hurried to the door. She set the candle down on the entry table and shot back the bolt, then carefully pulled the door open. Rochford was turning off the street onto her walkway.

“Sinclair!”

He looked up at her and smiled. Francesca flew down the steps and launched herself at him. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up and into him, and his mouth came down to meet hers.

They stood that way for a long moment, their lips sealed together and the rest of the world lost to them. But finally Francesca recalled where they were and what she was doing, and she released him and stepped back, letting out a shaky little laugh.

“I was so worried. Come in, come in….” She took his hand and led him inside, casting a glance around the darkened street.

As they had the other time he had visited her late at night, they slipped quietly down the hallway to the cozy sitting room and closed the door behind them.

“What happened?” she asked, turning to face him. “Did you see Perkins?”

“I did.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it to her. “Here is the note. I suggest that you burn it.”

Almost unbelieving, Francesca reached her hand and took the piece of paper. She noticed that it trembled in her fingers. “You did not—you did not pay him, did you?”

“No. I swear it.”

“Or kill him?”

A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Nor kill him. I persuaded the fellow to leave England. I do not think you will see him again.”

“Oh, Sinclair!” Francesca raised a hand to her eyes, pressing it against them to stem the tears that threatened her. “I suppose it is very wrong—legally the house may be his—but I cannot feel anything but glad that you sent him away.”

“The house is not his. Perkins admitted that the note was a forgery, just as I thought. Haughston was, God knows, mutton-headed enough to do it. But if Perkins had had this paper in his hands for the last seven years, he would have done something about it before now, even if he was in exile. Nor would he have been willing to accept money from you in lieu of taking the house. He would have gone straight to court with it when he returned home.”

“Oh.” Francesca thought about it. “No doubt you are right. I could have fought him in court. I should have, instead of bothering you with it.”

“You did exactly as you should have. If you had challenged him, he would have made you miserable with lies and gossip. The man is a snake. It was no bother to me. I am sorry only that you waited so long to tell me what was wrong. I would have liked to save you the weeks of worry.”

His words, the gentle expression in his dark eyes, finally broke through her control. She began to cry.

“Francesca…sweetheart, no…” He went to her, pulling her gently into his arms. “Do not cry.” He kissed the top of her head. “I meant to make you happy.”