Chapter Ten

July 25, 1812

"N ow I'm warning you—"

"Yes, yes, you're warning—"

"No, I mean it, Aylesbury—"

"You always mean it," said John, attempting his most wolfish grin. "And I never listen."

William Chance, Duke of Cothrom, rolled his eyes. "Do you have to be so aggravating?"

"Not in the slightest," John rejoined as they stepped into the drawing room all set out for the card party that Viscount Bysshe was hosting. "I do it especially, just for you."

His brother's groan of irritation was thankfully drowned out by the delightful playing of the pianoforte in the corner of the room. Otherwise it would have been most embarrassing. Quite a few of Lord Bysshe's guests turned out to have already arrived.

John inclined his head at several of the gentlemen he already knew, and discovered to his surprise that he had no interest in sweeping his attention over the gaggle of ladies.

Well. That was new.

"This is a card party," muttered Cothrom brightly as though there were nothing amiss. "Not an opportunity to—"

"We went over this in the carriage," said John, smiling just as broadly. "In fact, I seem to recall you went over it several times, despite me saying that I had listened the first—"

"If you listened the first time to anything, then you would not be on this second chance, you blackguard," Cothrom said, with a laugh for the benefit of the room.

John's jaw tightened, but there wasn't much he could say to that.

After all, his brother was right. And he had no wish to return to the countryside like a schoolboy sent home from lessons for misbehavior. Oh, the shame!

Besides, it would be most dull. What do gentlemen do in the country all the time, anyway? He could hardly make it out. Something about nature, which was all to the good, to be sure. But there must be more than that, mustn't there?

"—heed me well," Cothrom was muttering as they stepped into the room and closer to the other members of the ton who had received invitations. "This is not an excuse to lose more money!"

"I know that," snapped John, unable to bear the lecturing any longer. "You just worry about what we do if Lindow turns up."

That was sufficient to derail his brother. "And I don't want to have to pay—what do you mean, if Lindow turns up?"

John grinned. "Well, you know he's starting betting on horses, don't you? And now he's gone a step forward. A large, hefty, financial step further."

Cothrom's face was a picture of panic. "You don't mean—he hasn't—"

"Oh, hello, Lord Bysshe," said John pleasantly, waving over a gentleman with a penchant for conversation who could hopefully distract his older brother. Nursemaid, more like. "How pleasant to be invited, we thank you. Now, tell Cothrom all about..."

With his shadow carefully distracted by another person, John stepped back quietly and scanned around the room.

Not looking at the card tables. Much as he wished to rib his brother, he knew perfectly well that sitting down and gambling was not a good idea. It wasn't that he couldn't stop once he had started. He just had no wish to.

He wasn't looking at the ladies, either. Not really. There were a couple here this evening he did not recognize, and perhaps the John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, of three months ago would have secured introductions and wondered whether it were possible to find a nice nook to... get to know each other better.

But as it was now, none of them intrigued him. No, his gaze was searching for one woman in particular: Miss Florence Bailey.

It was ridiculous, really. It had only been... what, days since he had last seen her?

John swallowed, a flicker of uncertainty within him. That was odd. Since when was he a gentleman who noticed such things?

Apparently since now. And for each of the intervening hours since he had been with Florence, he had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about her. Worrying about her, mostly. Wondering about her. Regretting what he had said to her two days ago.

"I am taking marital union, for want of a better word, off the table. You don't have to worry. I'll never ask you for that again."

It had been a damned foolish thing to say. John could hardly believe the words had sprung from his mouth. What was he doing, cutting off perhaps forever the one source of pleasure he now craved?

But the memory of Florence in her panic, her breath short and her whole frame quivering with alarm—he would have done anything, anything in that moment to calm her.

And he had.

Now he would have to pay the price. But his words, their agreement had said nothing about spending time together, about appreciating each other's conversation. Which was why he had agreed to come to this card party in the first place.

The little pencil note on his formal invitation had obviously been scrawled in haste, perhaps not even by Lord Bysshe himself but by a butler. But it could not have been clearer.

Miss Bailey invited in your honor.

So she must be here, mustn't she?

John's eyes flickered across the room once more. It was strange. Just weeks ago, he would have gone whenever a card table could be pulled together. Especially if there were some wiling victims—sorry, participants to play with. The chance to win some coin would have been too difficult to give up.

Now . . .

Well, damn it, he missed her.

John almost laughed, his mirth hidden by the continuous playing of the pianoforte, which was most excellent.

Missed her? Missed Florence—missed any woman! It was unheard of.

And yet there was something about her. Something more about her that no other woman possessed, he was sure of it. And until he understood it, John was discovering that he couldn't really leave her alone.

The pianoforte music stopped as Lord Bysshe stepped forward and placed his hand on the instrument.

"Thank you, Miss Bailey, for such excellent playing," he said with a nod. "And now, let us take our seats! Shilling buy-ins for each table, we have whist, we have cribbage, we may even start a..."

Whatever the third game was, John was not sure. He was certain Lord Bysshe said, but the words drifted in one ear and out the other.

His attention was wholly focused on the woman seated on the pianoforte stool.

It was Florence.

How in heaven's name could he have missed her? There she had been, right in front of him—only six feet away. Her flaming red hair was now a beacon, one which he should have seen.

And he had not.

She looked up, cheeks pink at the momentary attention she had gained by being singled out by Lord Bysshe by name, and met his gaze.

And gave him a small smile.

John had to be careful that he didn't trip. Trip over what, he wasn't sure, but his legs were weak and his balance off the moment she had smiled at him.

The Marquess of Aylesbury, felled by a smile?

Remembering to smile back, John was delighted to see Florence's cheeks flush pink, her expression brighten—which then set his stomach to swooping.

This was ridiculous. He was no young slip of a man, just entering Society! He was almost thirty, for goodness' sake. He couldn't stand here, mooning over a woman he was already engaged to, unable to step forward and talk to her because he was smiling too much!

Move, man!

John half walked, half stumbled toward the pianoforte. "Miss Bailey."

"My lord," Florence said, rising and then curtsying low.

Strange. The last time they were alone together, he had kissed her most heartily. John could almost taste the sweetness of her mouth on his lips, the recollection was so strong.

"If you're not careful, I may actually end up falling in love with you."

And now they had to stand here in polite company, as though they had done nothing more scandalous than perhaps hold hands. Without gloves.

"I-I did not . . ." John swallowed.

What was it Florence had once said?

"A s-stutter is a difference in speech, but m-my... my nerves affect it. W-When I'm not n-nervous, I d-don't stutter."

Was this what it was like, to have no dominion over one's faculties? To struggle to get the words out, even though you knew precisely what you wished to say? It was maddening.

"I did not see you there," he said, forcing his tongue into submission. "By the pianoforte, which is ridiculous, I should have seen you there but—"

"It is one of my h-habits," said Florence. "No one n-notices servants, you see? And so I considered to m-myself, and asked: what is the c-closest thing to a servant I can become? And I th-thought—"

"Pianoforte," John blurted out, unable to help himself.

Florence's expression twisted. "It is probably unb-becoming of a lady to consider such things. And y-yet... yet I cannot go out riding all the t-time. I must be in Society, I s-suppose, until... until we are married."

Married.

John swallowed, trying to ignore the thoughts that sprang up. About marriage. And marriage beds. And kisses like those they had already shared, scalding hot and melting a part of him he had not even realized had been there. And aching. And longing. And wanting to—

"How was his kiss?"

"It . . . it was f-fine."

His fingers unconsciously curled into fists—fists John had to force himself to relax.

Fine! Fine? He had never received any complaints before. Though of course, he rarely requested an evaluation before. In fact, as far as he could remember, John had never inquired of his conquests if his kissing was sufficient.

It was an uncomfortable thought, one he had not permitted himself to wonder in the Bailey drawing room. But if he was lacking in the kissing department, did that mean he had insufficiencies elsewhere? Was it possible—God forbid—that his lovemaking skills—

"John?" Florence reached out and brushed her ungloved fingers down his own gloved ones. "I-I mean, my lord?"

John's expression sharpened and he gave her a brief smile. "Just... just lost in my thoughts. Do not mind me."

And those thoughts were: I will prove it to you, and to myself, once and for all. That I can give so much more pleasure than a mere kiss.

"I am taking marital union, for want of a better word, off the table. You don't have to worry. I'll never ask you for that again."

His heart jolted.

Damn. Or, he wouldn't.

"Let us sit down," he said aloud, conscious Florence was now staring at him with a most concerned look. "Here—a table tucked away by the wall without a game set up, only a pack of cards, so my brother won't have an excuse to complain."

Leading her to the table which only had two chairs—all to the good—John tried to collect himself as he helped Florence to her seat.

"Your brother?" she said lightly, twisting her head to look about the room. "Y-You mean the duke?"

"He's forbidden me to play again, as usual," John said darkly without thinking.

Florence turned back to him. "Wh-Why?"

Ah.

Well, it wasn't as though he had actually lied. This was a marriage of convenience, after all, and Florence had not asked about the state of his financial affairs. It was the bride's family who paid for the wedding, after all, and John saw no reason to enlighten her about his... well, his womanizing and gambling debts.

It wasn't as though he was going to stagger down that path again. Probably.

"He just wants to make sure I'm respectable in public," John said with a shrug.

Florence's eyebrow twitched. "As respectable as you are in private?"

Delight soared through him as he noticed again the complete lack of stammering in her words. So, she was starting to relax around him, was she? He wasn't sure whether to be pleased or offended.

Another young lady stepped over to the pianoforte, eager to perform, so they were able to continue their conversation under the sound of her playing.

"I..." John swallowed as an impulse overtook him. Where precisely this instinct came from, to spill the truth, he did not know. But he suddenly found he could no longer hold it back. "I have a gambling problem."

And all at once, a heavy weight he had never known was lying on his chest was removed.

John gasped. Dear God, how long had that been pressing on him?

Florence was watching him carefully. "G-Gambling problem?"

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he spoke quietly so that no one else could hear them. "I couldn't stop. Or I could, but I didn't. It was bad for me, bad for the family, so Cothrom... he's given me a second chance. To prove myself. To stay away from the cards."

Her gaze flickered to the table before them. "D-Do you w-want to m-move away, or—"

"It's fine, I have enough of a distraction," John said, his mouth dry.

Florence frowned. "You do?"

"I am pleased to see you, Florence," John told her, wishing to goodness he could reach out and take her hand. But he wasn't a complete dolt. "And I hope you will consent to sitting here with me, all evening, without speaking to another soul."

There was a glitter of mirth in her eyes. "Y-You know that is what I would prefer over all things. But... is this n-not a tad scandalous?"

John frowned, attempting to understand what she meant. "Scandalous?"

"The two of us here, tucked in a corner with n-no one else," Florence said gently. "You... you c-could be saying anything to me."

His stomach lurched. Well, fine. A bit lower down lurched.

He certainly knew the sort of things he would like to say to Miss Florence Bailey, but some of them were frowned on in parts of Europe. He definitely couldn't vocalize them here. Not without a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury tomorrow, permitting them to marry that afternoon.

John cleared his throat. Concentrate, man! "We are in plain view, and we are engaged. To be married."

"You and I know th-that's only an agreement," Florence said in a muted tone. "One we made for our convenience. It... it doesn't mean anything."

Something in John rebelled at the sentiment, even if he couldn't explain it.

Because it was painful, somehow, to hear Florence say that. Even if it was true. Even if it was a completely accurate description of how they had organized things, it felt callous, somehow.

Because things had changed.

John pushed the thought aside, but he couldn't remove it from his mind.

Yes, some things had changed, he told himself. He had kissed Florence and given her what could only be described as a panic attack. And that was quite enough.

"Doesn't mean anything?" he said aloud.

Florence dropped her gaze to her hands, as though the intensity of his thoughts had somehow crept out into his expression. "I-I just meant... I-I... w-when we..."

"Let's deal out these cards," said John, taking pity on the woman. "Then people will think we're playing, and not worry about the look of the thing."

After all, that's all most of Society was, wasn't it? The look of the thing.

Florence nodded and picked up the cards, deftly shuffling them and spreading them out into a simple game of Commerce.

John blinked. "You know," he said without thinking. "There's something about you."

When he looked up, she was flushing a deep pink. "I-I'm a wallflower."

"That's not what I—"

"It's why I know how to p-play the card game Commerce," Florence said quietly. "Wh-When I refused to go out, my b-brother would play with me."

John recalled the protective, almost defensive look on the man's face that he had accosted at the ball. Accosted quite erroneously, as it turned out. Yes, there was most definitely a look in that man of someone who had spent a great deal of time caring for his sister.

"It's more than just being a wallflower," said John, examining the cards in his hand. Excellent. A flush. "You—"

"Why is everyone s-so insistent that I not be a w-wallflower?" asked Florence, perhaps for the first time interjecting over John. "I-Is it so bad?"

She looked at him steadily over her cards.

John's stomach dropped. "No—no, that's not what I—"

"It is difficult at t-times, yes," she said, though there was weight behind every single syllable. "I-I am overlooked. Often m-made to feel unwanted. But... but I am just shy. Th-That is all, and if people... if people made an effort to know me..."

Her voice trailed away, her confidence evidently only able to take her so far.

John stared. He had never... well, never considered it like that. "Wallflower" was about as offensive a term a lady could be given in polite Society. No one wished for the moniker, and those who had it rarely escaped it.

Hark at him—escape it? Was he truly so blinded by Society's view of wallflowers that he considered being one to be such a detriment, a failing?

"But I don't think of you like that," he said.

Florence gave him a wry look. "I d-don't suppose you do. But I... I want to be valued for what I can bring to a conversation, even if it does often move too quickly for me to contribute. I want to be shy, and still be welcome. Be quiet, and still be respected. It is not a great ask, is it?"

"No," John said, dazed. "No, I suppose it's not."

If anyone had ever asked him whether he had set out to change Florence, to alter her in any way, John would have given them a resounding, "No!"

And yet he had, hadn't he?

Whenever he was with her he had encouraged her to open up—but on his terms. Speak more, speak louder, speak often. Laugh loudly and flirt and jest and...

And be like all those other ladies in the ton .

John swallowed, and glanced back down at the widow cards laying face up between them on the table for want of a distraction.

"I want to be loved," Florence said in a subdued way, laying down her own cards. A tricon of of aces. "Not just tolerated."

She looked up and met John's gaze, and there was such fire in it, such blazing fury, he was rather surprised the whole room did not burst into flames.

How could he have misunderstood Florence so utterly? How could he not have noticed the depths of the woman? Not just of mind, but of character. Oh, she may be a wallflower, but underneath the petals was a center of steel. A woman who had gone through Society's upbringing and decided to be her own person, no matter how painful that was.

A woman like that could rule the world.

She could certainly rule him.

"You win," John murmured.

Florence blinked. "I-I wh-wh-what—"

"The cards," he said hastily, pointing at them. "You win. I don't know how you did it, but—"

"B-By distracting you, of c-course," she said.

John noticed the stammer was back, but said nothing. The hasty agreement they had made, pressed up against her carriage outside the Knights' home, felt foolish now. How could he have made such a deal with a woman who was fast demonstrating her superiority to him in every way?

Because, by God, he liked her.

Had liked her before. Two years ago, the captivating if shy Miss Bailey had been a welcome amusement at the house party he had been certain he would find most dull. Flirting with her, courting her much against his typical taste, had been a pleasant diversion.

And then that kiss.

John had told himself then he had retreated because matrimony was most definitely not for him. But was it something else? Could he now say, with the beauty of two years of distance and hindsight, that instead it had been... fear?

Fear of caring too much?

"I-I find I am tired," Florence said quietly.

John blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I am t-tired," she said with a shy smile. "Do you th-think Lord Bysshe will mind if I—"

"If you wish to go home, go home," said John, hating that he was encouraging her to leave. He rose, offering out his hand. "But do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to your carriage."

There was a small stir in the card party as the Marquess of Aylesbury took the arm of Miss Bailey and led her out of the room—but after all, they were engaged, and it was only polite decorum to see her to the door.

Polite decorum was the last thing on John's mind.

"You know," Florence said in a murmur as they stepped into the empty hall. "The l-last time you saw me to a c-carriage, you kissed me, and we ended up engaged to be m-married."

"Don't tempt me to kiss you again," John muttered. "I told you before, we took that... those sorts of things off the table. You didn't want—"

"I didn't want you t-to feel pity for me," she exhaled, eyes wide. "To only d-do it because you f-felt you—you ought to, or—"

"Ought to?" he repeated blankly. Had she ever looked at herself? Did she have any idea what she did to him? John swallowed. "Well, I don't feel like I ought to. And I want to, but I don't want you to—"

Florence pulled the ties of her pelisse together into a tight bow, then looked up with sparkling hazel eyes. "And if I ask for it?"

Desire was rising, but John knew he had to ignore it—he would not put her in that position again. "You would have to be very sure, Florence, and I don't think—"

"I'm sure," she said softly, placing her hands inexplicably on his chest and leaning into him, her breasts straining against him. "Just... just stop if I ask, w-won't you?"

John swore under his breath. "Of course—of course I will, but—"

He groaned. How could he do anything else, with Florence Bailey kissing him?

She was eager. He could not have predicted the way her fingers were attempting to get underneath his waistcoat, scrabbling to get close to him.

Well, what was a man supposed to do?

Florence gasped in his mouth as John pushed her back, pinning her against the wall. It only gave him better access to plumb the sweet depths of her mouth, twisting her tongue into agonies of pleasure that roared through him.

"John," she moaned as his lips trailed kisses down to her breasts, breasts that rose and fell with frantic movement. "John—"

"Do you trust me?" John asked, lifting his head only for a moment to confirm her consent. "Will you allow me to—I want to give you—"

"Yes," said Florence, her eyes wide. "Yes."

He didn't understand it, couldn't understand it. Mere days ago she had refused his touch, refused his offer of lovemaking—and now she craved it?

But with the straining need of Florence against him, there was little thinking John could do. Besides, had she not demonstrated how much she wanted him? She had kissed him, had somehow managed to undo all his waistcoat buttons and was making swift work of his shirt ones.

No, she wanted this. And she had consented.

"You can tell me to stop," John said with a ragged voice. "Anytime you—"

He moaned, unable to help himself. As he had been speaking, his hand had been lifting up the skirts that were entirely in the way. His questing fingers had found soft skin, then softer skin, then—

Oh God. Her core, her center, the very soul of her. She was dripping wet.

"You want me," John said in a whisper, hardly able to believe it.

And Florence stared with wild eyes, and her lips parted. "So much."

Groaning as he dropped his head onto her shoulder, hardly able to stand, John allowed one finger to slowly tease over her slit.

Florence bucked under him, and he crushed his lips on hers to prevent her cry alerting the card party guests that anything untoward was occurring just feet from them.

Untoward? Damning hell, there was nothing better than this.

Straining to control himself, desperate to make this the best moment of her life, John tasted the eagerness in Florence's mouth.

And slipped a finger inside her.

Slowly, slowly, he built the rhythm he knew would edge her closer and closer to absolute ecstasy. Florence whimpered, twisting her hips, bucking slightly as his finger slipped over her nub, and that only made him want her more.

But this wasn't about his pleasure. It was about hers.

Manhood straining in his breeches and hoping beyond hope he was giving her the sweet, decadent, sensual experience she so deserved, John noticed when Florence's quivering heightened.

He slipped in his thumb, circling around her nub as his finger twisted and sped up the pace.

Florence fell apart.

It was so sweet to watch, to feel, to taste, John could have wept. This was everything—all he wanted, for the rest of his life, was to give this woman bliss like this. To see her come, to feel her core squeeze around his fingers, to taste the honeysweet dew of her orgasm.

When Florence collapsed against him, John held her without saying a word.

There were no words for a moment like this.

She blinked up at him as though he were a blinding light. "Th-That... that was..."

John waited, but when it became clear she could not continue, he grinned. "Now, I believe you had a carriage waiting?"

Florence gave an unsteady laugh. "You think I can walk a-after that?"

"Fear not," said John bracingly. In one movement, he lifted her into his arms and stepped toward the door. "I have you, Florence. I have you."