Page 79 of The Courtship Dance

“Francesca…”

“Mmm?”

“Whatever I missaid yesterday, I am sorry.”

Francesca stiffened, suddenly wary. “Sinclair, no—”

“Please, let me finish. I want to marry you. However you say, whenever it pleases you. I want you to be my wife.”

“Pray do not spoil this.” She rolled away from him, but he reached out and wrapped his hand around her arm, holding her in place.

“No, I will not let you do this. You are not running away from me again.”

“I am not running.” She turned back. She felt suddenly naked and exposed before him, and she pulled the sheet up over her chest and sat up to face him.

“What else would you call it?” He sat up, too, releasing her arm. “I am not a fool, Francesca, no matter how much I may have acted one yesterday. That was my pride speaking, my hurt over what happened fifteen years ago. But once I let myself look at it cleanly and clearly, I knew…” He doubled his fist and tapped it against his chest. “I know that you love me. Do not tell me that you do not.”

“Of course I love you!” Tears sprang into Francesca’s eyes, and she whirled, jumping off the bed and grabbing the bundle of clothes Sinclair had tossed on the bed earlier. She could not stand naked in front of him and argue. Hastily, she began to throw on the undergarments and the simple frock.

Rochford followed her, shoving his legs into his breeches and pulling them up, buttoning them high enough to stay on his body as he strode over to Francesca. His eyes were bright with anger and frustration, and color flamed on the high ridge of his cheekbones.

“Then why, in the name of all that is holy, do you refuse to marry me?” he thundered. “Blast it, Francesca, I cannot believe that you are playing a coquette’s game with me.”

“Of course not!” She faced him, her jaw set stubbornly, her hands fisted on her hips. “How can you even think such a thing? If you had but listened yesterday instead of charging off like a wounded bull, I would have explained.”

His brows rushed together, and a light flared in his eyes, and for an instant Francesca thought that he was about to explode into a rage. But he set his jaw and said only, “Explain, then. I will endeavor not to behave like a bull.”

Francesca drew a breath. Now that she had the opportunity, she suddenly found it terribly hard to speak. Tears threatened to clog her throat and fill her eyes. She pushed them back. “I am being reasonable.”

“Reasonable!”

“Yes, reasonable. I am thinking about the future, about your future.”

“Unless you hope to see me suffer a long and lonely one, I fail to see how you are thinking of my future,” he retorted.

“You are a duke. You have to marry well.”

“And you are not good enough to be a duchess?” His brows sailed upward. “I must say, my dear, I have never known you to be so modest.”

“You know that I am not the sort to be a duchess,” Francesca protested. “It is not my lineage at fault. It is me.”

“And how, pray, are you not fit?”

“In so many ways! I am not sober or dignified. I don’t think about important things or read weighty tomes or engage in learned discussions. Gossip and fashion and parties—those are what I know. I am flighty and frivolous. We are horridly unalike. You will be bound to grow tired of me and regret marrying me.”

“Francesca…dearest…for someone who knows so much about love, there are times when you are remarkably obtuse. If I wanted someone exactly like me, I would be quite content living alone. I have no desire to marry a bluestocking or a bore or someone puffed up with pride of family. I promise that I will read all the weighty tomes and think all the deep thoughts that we are required to. And you…” His face softened. “You will give our parties and entrance our friends, win the love of my tenants, and make everyone wonder how I could have caught a jewel such as you. And every day you will fill my eyes with beauty.”

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her softly on the mouth. “Believe me, I know a great deal about regret. I have suffered it for fifteen years. I will not regret marrying you. Your frivolity, your love of fun, your laughter, your smile—those are some of the things I find most enchanting about you. I want to laugh. I even want you to stick a pinprick in my pride now and then. Sweet heavens, don’t you realize—you are everything I could want in a wife.”

His words made her heart swell with love. She wanted to give in, to admit that nothing would make her happier than marrying him. But she could not allow herself to do so. She had to be strong.

She pulled away, saying, “I am not young. I am a widow.”

“I care not.” He crossed his arms, facing her.

She stared at him, frustrated. Her throat was tight, and she felt as if it was filling with such anger, such loss, that she might explode at any moment. Finally, as if it had been torn from her, she cried, “I cannot have children!”

Sinclair stared at her. Then he stepped forward, his arms going around her gently and he pulled her to him, cradling her against his chest. “Oh, my God, Francesca…I am so sorry.”