The Courtship Dance by Candace Camp Read Free Book Online Page A

not been drinking. And now that she knew what was involved, it would not be so frightening or embarrassing.
    She had been wrong, of course. It had not been as painful, that was true. But there had been none of the sweet eagerness, none of the glowing happiness, that she had once believed would await her in marriage. There had been only the same feeling of awkwardness and humiliation as he ran his hands over her, squeezing her breasts and shoving his fingers between her legs. She had endured the same harsh thrusting into her tender flesh, leaving her bruised and battered. And her tears had flowed the same afterwards—except that this time Andrew had been awake to hear her, and had wound up cursing and leaving her bed.
    It had never improved in any real way. As time passed, it did not hurt as much—sometimes only a little and sometimes not at all. But it was always uncomfortable and humiliating. And, she found, Andrew was more often drunk than otherwise. She dreaded his coming to her bed, his breath stinking of port, his handsgrabbing at her breasts and buttocks, his body invading hers in rough, jarring thrusts.
    She had learned to close her eyes and turn her head away, to think of something else as she lay beneath him, and before long it would be over. Andrew would curse her for her lifelessness and call her cold as ice. The cheapest whore gave him a better ride than she did, he told her bitterly, and if she complained to him about his faithlessness, he reminded her that he would not have to turn to a mistress if she were a real woman.
    Francesca wished that she could deny his words. But she suspected that he was right, that she was not like other women. She had heard other married women talk and giggle over what happened in bed or how virile their husbands were. She had heard whispers behind fans of the prowess of a certain man and murmurs praising the form of this fellow or that, speculations regarding some lord’s performance beneath the sheets. Other women, apparently, enjoyed the marital bed rather than dreading it.
    She had wondered if something had died within her when Rochford broke her heart. However, she also could not help but wonder if Rochford had perhaps sensed the coldness that dwelt within her, even before they married, and that it had been her lack of passion that had driven him into Daphne’s arms. She had assumed that it was gentlemanly restraint that had kept him from trying to sneak into some corner to kiss and caress her. But what if he had not done so simply because he realized that she was as cold as a fish?
    At least she would get children out of it all, she had told herself, but even there, she had been wrong. Six months into their marriage, she had gotten pregnant. Four months later, as she and Andrew had been arguing about his gambling losses, he had grabbed her arm as she stormed away from him. She had jerked herself free and stumbled backward, crashing into the railing at the top of the stairs and falling down several steps. Within hours, she had miscarried, and her doctor, frowning, had warned her that she might not be able to have children.
    He had been right. She had not conceived again. Those had been the darkest days of her life, knowing that she had lost all chance at the family she had once thought she would have. She was not sure if she had ever really loved her husband; certainly, whatever love she had felt for him had died since they became man and wife. And now she knew that she would not have the joy of children, either.
    It had been a relief when Andrew came less and less frequently to her bed, and, frankly, she had not even really cared that he stayed away from their home more, as well, spending his time wenching and drinking. She had not bothered to remonstrate with him over anything but his gambling, which further endangered their always precarious finances.
    When he died falling from his horse in a drunken stupor, she had not been able to summon up a single tear for him. What