Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

J ack gave himself the gift of an eternal minute to watch and listen to Flora slowly coming back to herself. To impress upon his memory what she looked like, all pale and flushed and spread out before him, her pristine white skirts pushed up, her soft, sweet belly, rising and falling with each slowing breath. To remember what she tasted like when he put his mouth to her exquisite flesh. To marvel at the sounds she made while he brought her to the peak of her bliss.

“Well.” She let out a breath of laughing wonder. “Happy Saint Nicholas Day to me.”

“I hope ours was a suitable celebration,” he ventured with his own laugh, “to add to the others.”

“Oh, gracious,” she said on a mortified whisper when she finally met his eyes. “Was I as loud as she was?”

“My darling lass. Louder,” he teased.

“Oh, Lord.” A burst of pink re-blossomed on her cheeks before she covered them with her hands. “Gracious, Jack.” She blew out a huff of disagreement. “You’re meant to be kind and reassure me.”

“Apologies, sweet Flora. But I’m not a reassuring sort of fellow.” It was best she knew. “I’m too poor for platitudes.” To lessen the stinging reintroduction of truth into what had up until that moment been a dream-like interlude, he added, “But we are quite alone, and I take the sounds of your delight as a sign of your approval.”

Her relief was nearly as profound as her climax had been. “Thank God.”

Jack wasn’t quite ready to thank a deity he wasn’t sure he believed in. But he sure as all hell believed in Flora Conway—now more than ever before. “I’d rather thank you.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks went that divine shade of sunset. “Thank you .” She drew in a long breath before she added, “Thank you for the—” She seemed to be casting about for the right word.

“—climax? Orgasm?” he supplied. “Little death?”

“Do you know, it didn’t feel like a little death—it felt more like a little life.”

Her simple honesty was killing him. All he could think to say was, “This is why I like you.”

She reached out to stroke his face. “Yes, what a backwards foundation for a friendship we’ve laid—lust and likability. What strange bedfellows.”

“And we haven’t been to bed, yet.”

Flora managed to tip her head, even as she lay next to him. “I did not think we were aiming for a bed.”

“No,” he confirmed, much to his damn disappointment. “We are not. In fact, very shortly, what little bed I have will be but a canvas cot swaying from the ceiling beams. The comfort of ease is not in my future.”

“We do not have a future,” she said with that solemn insight of hers. “Except, I hope, in friendship. May I write to you on this bed-less, swaying ship of yours? As your friend?”

Something within him turned easy and regretful all at the same time. “Aye. I should like that. Now,” he said a bit brusquely to cover his uncharacteristic descent into sentiment, “let us put you all to rights.”

She blew out a breathy laugh. “I fear there’s no chance of that, my dear Jack.” But she was smiling as she stood on tottering legs to straighten her gown. “Gracious! My skirts are hopelessly crushed. My maid will have my head.”

“For my own part, I would choose a different part of your anatomy to have, although, since your head is the place where the kissing happens, and is quite nice, I hope she will defer her wrath.”

“Thank you, Jack. As is yours—your head. Quite nice.”

“Damning each other with faint praise? That means it is time to go.”

“Oh, no.” She reached for his hand. “Please.”

“No?” He was instantly back on his guard.

“No.” She laced her fingers through his. “Not yet. I’m just feeling intolerably awkward thinking about facing the world again. I'm sure it will pass.” A blush arose in her cheeks, but she held to her purpose. “If you will kiss me again. Please. Just once. Just once more, the way?—”

He did not make her beg.

He kissed her. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her still and kissed her with every bit of lust and longing left within him. He kissed her with heat and fire and lips and tongue and desire that rose like a damn phoenix within, until he began to eye the divan with renewed purpose.

“Gracious,” she said as she worked to regain her breath. “Most educational.”

“And what have you learned this time?” he teased.

“That I am beginning to really, truly, and very sincerely, like you, too, Jack Balfour.”

Another, even more unexpected hit—Jack felt shot clean through.

He tried through the years to give himself a character—to be a man other people might count on. To live up to his word when it mattered. To be amusing when called upon. He had felt himself a gentleman, a dutiful officer, a loyal friend, and a generous lover.

But until the moment Flora Conway had said she liked him, he had not truly understood the privilege, the true generosity of friendship. “I am honored.”

“As am I,” she rejoined easily. “And I am also glad. Though it seems little enough to say, again, thank you. This has been lovely.”

His cynicism reasserted itself. “But?”

“No buts,” she said with that solemnly serene smile of hers. “No conditions or recriminations. And certainly, no regrets.”

This then, was her real gift—the gift of pleasure that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with being content.

He had yet to learn to be content with what he had. Because it was impossible. Impossible not to want more. Not to want to bask in the warmth of her serenity for at least a little while longer. For as long as he could.

But she was already moving toward the door even as she offered him her hand. “I am sure we ought to return to the party.”

He brought the small hand she had extended to his lips. “Yes, much to my regret.”

“Come now—did we not just say no regrets?” she urged.

“You did. But I have lived too long in the world not to have some very real regrets, dear Flora. And I fear that the brevity of my association with you will very soon be added to that list.”

“Brevity? Then you really must leave before Christmas?”

“I fear so,” he confirmed. “I needs must make one more trip north to Kinloch to close up and shore up what is left of the house before I head for London. It is a three-day journey south to the capital, and despite Lady Ivers’s prediction, not even the arrival of the savior at Christmastide will slow the mighty Admiralty from their purpose. Not this year anyway. With any luck, and enough money to raise and provision a decent crew, I should be into Portsmouth Roads before Epiphany.”

“Though I have just found you, I am sorry to see you go.”

“So am I.” For the first time in ages, he actually meant it. He had trotted his removal out like a faithful dog trailing behind him, ready as an excuse to end any situation or conversation he found intolerable.

“Can I not convince you to stay for just a few days more?” she asked. “Would those few days really matter that much? Or even a few more hours?”

“I thought you said we should return to the party?”

“I did, didn’t I?” She let out an exasperated sigh. “That would be the prudent thing to do. But the night is fairly young—it is just going on midnight. Perhaps we might continue our…discussion on the topic of education a little later on? After the supper?”

He made a show of consulting his watch. “I suppose I might spare a few more hours. Come, let me escort you upstairs.” Jack offered her his arm.

“What if we’re seen coming back together?”

“We will talk. We’ll talk as if we’ve been having the most delightful, ridiculous, scandalous, ordinary conversation that we want to continue over supper, and we’ll refuse to be interrupted by anyone. We will brazen it out.”