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of the marital act. If she had married the duke, she told herself, the result would have been the same. The only difference would have been that she turned stiff and cold with Rochford, and it would have been he, not Andrew, who left her bed cursing and calling her Lady Ice—or, rather, the Duchess of Ice, she supposed.
    A grim little smile curved her lips. The duke had been fond of her, but it was absurd to dream that she might have won his love over the years. He would have acted more honorably than Haughston, of course. He would not have harangued her or paraded his mistresses before her. But he would doubtless have enjoyed theirmarital bed as little as Andrew had. He, too, would have lost whatever feeling he had for her when she could not respond to him with ardor. And how much of her love for him would have remained as, night after night, she had had to endure having him thrust into her, hoping that this time it would not be painful, sighing with relief when the act was over and he left her bed?
    There was no reason to think that any of that would have changed. She would not magically have become a passionate woman simply because she married a different man. It would have been worse, she thought, to have seen the disenchantment dawn on Rochford’s face as he realized that his wife was cold in bed. And it would have been worse, surely, to have come to dread the nighttime visits of the man she loved.
    No, it was better by far to have lived the life she had. Better to still have her happy memories of the love she had once felt. Rochford, too, would have been thankful that she had not married him if only he had known the sort of woman she was. He could still marry and have heirs.
    Indeed, any of the women she had chosen would make an excellent wife and duchess for Rochford. He could easily fall in love with one of them. After all, Francesca had achieved a great deal of success in that regard with the matches she had helped to bring about. The rest of his life would be happier than it doubtless would have been if they had married. And such an outcome would make her happy, too. Very happy, she told herself.
    So why, then, she wondered, did the thought of arranging his wedding to another leave her feeling so empty inside?

CHAPTER THREE
    F RANCESCA WAS WALKING through the garden at Dancy Park. The sun was warm upon her back, and the air was redolent with the scent of roses. In the golden light, flowers bloomed in a riot of color: purple larkspur, white and yellow snapdragons, the huge pink and red bursts of peonies, and everywhere roses in all shades, climbing trellises and spilling over walls. A breeze ruffled the flowers, sending their heads nodding and petals floating on the air.
    “Francesca.”
    She turned, and there was Rochford. The sun was behind him, and she could not see his features clearly, but she knew his voice, his form, the way he walked toward her. She smiled, emotion welling up in her.
    “I saw you from my study,” he went on, coming closer to her.
    His face was all angles and planes; she wanted to trace her fingertips along them. In the sunlight, his dark eyes were lighter than they appeared indoors, the irises the color of warm chocolate surrounding the coal-black of the pupils. Her eyes went to his mouth, firm and well-defined. His lips, she thought, looked succulent, and at the idea, something twisted in her abdomen, hot and slow.
    “Sinclair.” His name was no more than a breath upon her lips. Her chest tightened, her throat closing up as it often did when he was near. He was as familiar to her as this garden or this house, and yet whenever she was around him these days, she was as skittish and eager, as thrumming with energy, as if she had never seen him before.
    He raised his hand, cupping her cheek in his palm. His hand was hard, and warmer than even the sun’s caress. His thumb smoothed its way across her cheek and brushed against her mouth. Featherlight, he traced the line of her lips, and the