Chapter Eleven

July 30, 1812

F lorence hesitated, then lifted the heavy knocker and allowed it to fall on the imposing door before her.

She hadn't actually intended it to be a particularly loud knock, but that did not appear to matter. The heavy iron slammed down onto the brass circle, rebounding several times and making it sound like she was demanding access.

She winced. She would have to hope the butler would be understanding.

But it wasn't a butler, or even a footman, who opened the door of Aylesbury House.

"John."

She would have to get back into the habit of calling him the Marquess of Aylesbury in company, or at the very least "my lord." But the trouble was, that would mean missing out on seeing John's lips break into a delighted smile whenever she said his name.

A habit she most certainly did not wish to break.

"Florence," he said softly.

Florence beamed, trying not to melt onto a puddle on the doorstep.

It had been at the card party, she was certain. That was when something had changed between them. Florence wasn't sure whether it was the fact that she had finally opened up about being a wallflower, and how limiting it was to be treated in such a way... or the fact that he had brought her to ecstasy with his fingers in the hall of Lord Bysshe's home.

One or the other.

The point was , she told herself determinedly, something had shifted . The last few days had been some of the happiest she had ever known.

Which, thanks to her mother, was not saying much. But still.

"It looks like it's g-going to rain," Florence whispered.

She would have jerked her head behind her, or even turned to look up at the rainclouds which had been scudding over the London sky all day. After what felt like an eternity of blistering heat, the sudden dull clouds were a welcome relief.

But that would mean looking away from John.

And she couldn't. Florence didn't think she would ever encounter a gentleman so liable to make her beam as John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury. Even when he wasn't intending to be, he was most amusing.

Not something she had ever mentioned to him.

"Rain?" said John vaguely, not looking away. "What care I about rain, when you're here?"

Heat blossomed up Florence's body, across her décolletage, and up her neck to her cheeks. And in any other situation, that would have bothered her. Blushing, as her mother so often said, was an attempt to attract attention—and there was nothing more shameful in Mrs. Bailey's eyes than attracting attention. At least, in that way.

But with John... oh, what did it matter? He never seemed to notice whether she was flushing or not, Florence reasoned, and so why should she care?

How could she care about anything when he was looking at her like that?

"Come on in," said John quietly, stepping back so she could enter the building. "Welcome to Aylesbury House."

Florence swallowed as she stepped inside.

It was perfectly fine, she told herself as John's fingers smoothed across her shoulder as he removed her pelisse. John had invited her and his brothers to dinner. It was an opportunity, he had said, for her to get to know the Chance family better.

The idea of having to converse with so many people—two brothers and a wife—had hardly filled Florence with joy, but still.

She would be with John.

"Aylesbury House?" she said, gazing around the large hallway in which they now stood. "I-It's not a very original name, i-is it?"

John grinned. "I suppose not—but the Chance family isn't particularly known for our creativity. My older brother's London townhouse is Cothrom House, Lindow's is Lindow House... you get the general idea."

Florence matched his smile, then swiftly looked away and at the splendor of the place.

It was incredible. A high ceiling, carefully painted with swirling clouds, gods and goddesses peeking out behind rose bushes and fruit trees. Cherubs flew about in the sky, glinting with gold paint. There were columns around the hallway, marble with exquisite carvings that must have taken an age to craft. It was magnificent.

"Beautiful."

"Yes," said John.

When Florence turned back to him, he was looking not looking at the spectacular chandelier, or the paintings, or the most interesting sculptures that sat either side of the doors. He was looking at her.

Florence's pulse skipped a beat, fluttering almost painfully. He had a way with him, this man. Oh, she'd known that from the minute that he'd flirted with her when they first met—had known John Chance was a charmer.

But this was different. There had been moments, these last few days when they had ridden together in Hyde Park, or wandered through an art gallery Lord Palmerston had opened, or discussed politics over a cup of tea at Twining's...

Moments when John looked at her almost as though she were the only woman in the world.

Which was a ridiculous thought , Florence told herself sternly. There were many ladies in the world—most of them prettier and more delightful in their conversation than she.

It just happened that she was the one John was looking at in that moment.

John cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "A tour, my lady?"

Florence gave a nervous laugh. "I'm n-not a—"

"But you will be," he countered with a smile, taking her hand and placing it on his arm, where it burned. "In not too long, you'll be the Marchioness of Aylesbury. You'll be mistress of all this."

All this . . .

It was a heady thought, but Florence managed to retain her equilibrium as he led her into a beautifully appointed morning room, with sky-blue drapes and a rug that picked out the same color.

"Sh-Shouldn't we wait for your brothers?"

John shrugged. "They've seen it all before anyway, they won't mind missing the tour."

"N-No, I meant—"

"Look here, this is where I thought you could place your books," he said eagerly, speaking over her in his excitement as he gestured to a bookcase which was only half full. "And through here"—he pulled her onward, into a spacious drawing room with an impressive marble fireplace—"I thought there would be room for your pianoforte. If you have one. If not, we can buy one."

Florence stared about her in wonder. "P-Pianoforte?"

"Yes," said John, beaming. "Though now I say that, I realize I'm not sure if you actually like playing, or just use it as a clever excuse to avoid people."

"I . . . I d-don't—"

"Well, let's get one, and then if needed you can use it to avoid me," John said with a wink. "I'm sure I am most irritating at least half the time, so it may come in handy."

Their mingled laughter moved through the drawing room into the dining room—resplendent in red—then into a parlor that looked out onto the garden, a study which John said sternly she was never to enter for it was packed to the rafters with boredom, and a small library with a small writing desk in the corner.

"I suppose I should stop the tour there, and not tempt you to come upstairs with me," said John with a wicked look.

Florence flushed, looking at her hand so comfortably tucked into John's arm. She'd almost forgotten, for a moment, why he was giving her the tour in the first place.

Her future home.

One of them. She still had to have the awkward conversation with her mother—Mrs. Bailey was most certainly not accompanying the new marchioness into her marital home—but it was starting to occur to Florence that there would be, in the absolute worst-case scenario, a solution.

Why, the Marquess of Aylesbury had many houses. Why not simply deposit her mother in one of those?

"Unless . . ."

Florence looked up. "Unless?"

"Unless you would like a tour of the upstairs of your future home," said John.

There was more than a little hint in his expression, but Florence discovered she could meet his teasing air with relative equanimity. "P-Perhaps not," she said with a smile. "If we can do... do th-that in a hallway, I'd hate to th-think what we'd get up to in a bedchamber."

The instant the words had left her mouth, Florence's cheeks burned.

Well! It was a most scandalous thing to even think, let alone say—and she had spoken those words not just to herself, which may have been permissible... but to her future husband!

A future husband who had already given her a glimpse of the pleasures of the flesh that lay before them... if they wanted them...

"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."

Florence hesitated. It had been a kindly gesture, she was certain of that—or perhaps he had never intended to do much of that sort of thing with his actual wife, and intended instead to take up a mistress the moment their vows were spoken.

It was a rather disconcerting thought. But not unusual. In fact, as far as she could make out, it was unusual for a gentleman not to take a mistress, to stay loyal to his wife.

"Dear God, you're right," said John with a sigh. "And I made you that promise—I shouldn't have even... come, let us sit in the drawing room and attempt to act like rational human beings."

Florence let out a laugh as he swung her around, her head reeling, and then pulled her through the house back to the drawing room.

At this time of year, it would be several hours until the sun went down. The fireplace therefore remained unlit, and John deposited her on the sofa beside the empty grate.

He sat beside her. Very close beside her.

"You'll have to let me know if you don't like any of it," he said quietly.

Florence blinked. "Don't like what?"

"Any of the house," John said, gesturing vaguely about the room. "It'll be your home, you'll be mistress of it. The Marchioness of Aylesbury. It will be for you to decide what furnishings are suitable, what color you want the walls, that sort of thing."

Her stomach lurched at the thought.

Her own home. It wasn't something she had ever given much thought to. Florence had known from a young age, almost as soon as she had realized what Society's requirements were of a person, that she did not match them. So finding a husband and imagining their life together had been something other ladies did, not her.

And now here she was, facing the prospect of not only her own home, but freedom within it. Freedom to choose how a room looked, and who would be invited into it...

John shifted closer. "You know, as we are alone—"

"Y-Yes, we are alone," said Florence firmly, giving him a look that told him with no uncertainty precisely what they should be doing.

That was, what they should not be doing.

John leaned back with a wolfish look. "You're going to keep me on my toes, aren't you, Florence?"

A shiver trickled down her back. "Perhaps."

If she were fortunate.

This proposal of a marriage of convenience had fast become something Florence could not have envisioned. It had grown, spread, twisted into something like a vine. Like a bramble, suddenly blossoming flowers.

At least, it was for her. And John must like her, Florence reasoned, or else he would not have... he would not keep trying to...

Would he?

"When are your brothers arriving?" she asked, partly to keep John distracted, partly to distract herself. "Will the two of them arrive together?"

The moment Florence saw John's expression, she knew the truth. "John Chance!"

"Well, it's so rare that you and I ever get to—"

"I've been had!"

"Dear God, don't tempt me," said John in an undertone.

Florence's cheeks flushed, but she could not help but smile. "You know what I mean."

"So I wanted to have dinner with you alone," he said, leaning back on the sofa with a shrug. "It is hardly a crime."

"But..." Florence floundered, attempting to explain to the man—the Marquess of Aylesbury!—just how outrageous it was, what he had done. And at the same time, trying to understand this teasing he was subjecting her to. Pretending that he wished to make love to her—after his own declaration that he wouldn't ask her to do so!

A flicker of uncertainty crept within her. Except... except she had asked him for that hedonism. And he'd made her feel so wonderful—and knowing that she could stop him at any time, end the encounter with a mere word...

Well. It had made her feel powerful. In control, in a way she had never done before.

"I wanted you all to myself," John was saying. "And if that's scandalous—"

"You know it is—and worse, you know the only reason my mother permitted me to come was because you said your sister-in-law would be here," Florence said sternly. "And you... why are you looking at me like that?"

It was an odd look. John was not teasing her with this look. His grin was wide but held little mirth. It was... genuine. A genuine smile, one Florence could not quite unpick.

"What?" she said, a little defensively. She moved on the sofa, twisting so she could better face him. "You're staring at me as though you have never seen me before, and you're happy, and—and what?"

For a moment, John hesitated. Then he inhaled deeply and said leisurely, "Florence. Florence, you... you aren't stammering."

Florence lifted her hands to her mouth as it fell open. "I... I'm not?"

He shook his head, his expression unchanging. "You're not. It's the highest compliment you have ever paid me."

Slowly, Florence allowed her hands to fall back into her lap as she tried to take in the simple fact that she had not been stammering.

Not stammering? She always stammered. Her words were always clear and concise in her mind, and always left her lips elegantly and with refinement when she was alone. It was before others that she was unable to twist her tongue into the right shapes.

But not with John. Not now.

She swallowed, almost nervous to attempt to speak again in case the magic had faded. "I-I... I hadn't noticed."

"And I don't mind if you do stammer," John said swiftly, reaching out a hand to clasp hers. "You can stammer all you want, and I'll do my damnedest—oh, sorry—I'll do my utmost not to interrupt you. I promise."

Florence squeezed his hand, hardly knowing what to do with herself. "It's a p-part of me."

"And I don't want to change it," said John, his blue eyes focused on her. "I don't want to change a single bit of you."

And she could have melted right into the sofa.

Not wanting her to change? No, that simply wasn't possible. Everyone wanted her to change. Her mother wanted her to be... well, completely different. Her brother wished her to be stronger in her convictions. Lady Romeril wanted her to sing, God forbid, at every recital. Miss Quintrell wanted her to be a gossip. Other friends had hated her shyness...

But John?

He squeezed her hand, then with seemingly great reluctance, released it. "So. I lied. Sorry."

Florence tried to take a steadying breath. How was it possible to be so tremulous while still sitting down? "Well, I... I h-hope that is not a habit you intend to keep. When we are married."

A dinner gong rang at that exact moment, so John rose and offered his hand rather than reply to her comment. And, in a way, he did not need to. Though Florence had intended it as a jest, she had seen the flash of pain that swept across John's face at her words. Twisting agony, momentary disappointment, then it was gone. And John was smiling again.

"Here," he said as they entered the dining room.

He had led her to a chair at the foot of the table. It had been elegantly set with silver cutlery and plates edged in gold... and because the table could seat at least twelve people, it meant that she was at the complete opposite end from John, whose place had been set at the head.

At least ten feet from her.

"Florence?"

She blinked. John had pulled out her chair, offering to seat her—but this was wrong. Florence knew decorum dictated they sit this way, but... well, they were alone, weren't they?

Other than a footman, that was.

"W-Would you b-be so good as to move th-this?" she said to the man standing in Aylesbury livery. "T-to there."

The footman stared, then his gaze darted a fraction to the left.

John shrugged. "She'll be your mistress in no time, you may as well get accustomed to obeying her now."

Florence was delighted to hear that there was a teasing air in his voice. And so when the footman had finished, John and Florence sat at one end of the table, her place just to his right. Within touching distance.

"Don't you want to be proper?" John asked as the footman placed his napkin on his lap. "Do things the right way?"

"I have been p-proper all my life," Florence countered as the footman did the same for her own napkin. "Besides, I only really f-feel alive when... when I'm with you."

Her cheeks burned to say such a thing in the presence of another, but it couldn't be helped. This was going to be her life , she could not help but think. Footmen and maids and servants all the time.

Serving their marquess and marchioness.

The footman stepped over to the dumbwaiter and removed two plates of delicious looking food, placing them before each of them and then swiftly departing.

They were alone.

John poured her a glass of wine. "Well, you were proper, and you've reaped the rewards."

"Rewards?"

"Me, of course," he grinned. "A marquess. Most ladies of the ton would—well, not kill for one precisely—"

"I am not so sure of that," Florence interjected, marvelous at her bravery in doing such a wild thing. "I-I am not sure most ladies of the t-ton would praise me if they discovered that I was the one, in fact, to propose to you."

John sipped at the wine and Florence followed suit. A delicious red. A perfect accompaniment for the roasted chicken and hearty potatoes which sat before them.

"I'm hardly a success," Florence said, with as much of a laugh as she could manage.

It was only after she had taken a few mouthfuls of the delicious food that she looked up, and saw once again a most strange expression on John's face. It wasn't sadness—not quite—but it wasn't far off. A sort of melancholy which she never would have associated with the carefree bravado of the Marquess of Aylesbury.

"Well, we can be failures together," John said.

Florence placed her fork down. "You are not a failure."

"Oh, I am—quite a successful failure, in fact, though I am aware of the irony," he said with a dry chuckle that did not quite reach his eyes. "I'm always making mistakes, always needing second, third, fourth chances from my brother."

"Your brother?"

"Cothrom," John explained with a sigh, though he took another mouthful onto his fork and chewed it thoughtfully before continuing. "If there has ever been anyone in the world who epitomizes the word ‘proper,' it's Cothrom. William, the eldest of us. He's never put a step wrong in public, never caused scenes amongst the ton —"

"Unlike you," Florence said softly.

She watched as the man she knew she loved winced, and she hated she had been the cause. But though this conversation was evidently painful for John, it was important, too. She could not explain why, but it was. This moment. It was crucial.

"And then there's me," John said with a sigh. "Always a failure, never getting it right. I'm always being bailed out by my brother—we both are."

"Both?"

"Lindow and me. Although I suppose," he said thoughtfully, "it's possible that... that Pernrith is too, and I just don't know about it."

Florence frowned. "Pernrith?"

It was a name she vaguely recognized, but it was hard to put a face to the name—or place it within the ton . Wasn't he second son of a—no, that was someone else.

John cut viciously at a particularly roasted bit of chicken. "The fourth Chance brother—in a way. Lindow would hate me for saying that."

It was becoming less clear, not more. "I don't unders-stand."

And her hopes soared as he paused, waited to see whether she would continue, not wishing to speak over her.

Florence smiled encouragingly, and John nodded. "Well, there are three Chance brothers... and a fourth. Our father's indiscretion."

Embarrassment filled her. "Oh. Oh! Oh, I see."

"Yes, it's an awkward dynamic, and I can't say I like the man," John said curtly. "Lindow hates him, but that's... well, that's his own business. The point is, Cothrom hopes for the best and we never give it to him. I move from one scrape to the other, never making him proud, never making anyone proud... I'll never be enough."

There was such anguish in his words, such pain in his tones, that Florence did not have to think. She just acted instinctively. She reached out and took his hand. "You're enough for me."

John lifted his eyes to meet hers, and Florence almost gasped at the longing, the desperate need to be loved that poured from his face. "Am I?"

She nodded. "And you don't need to change for me, John Chance."

He gave a shaky laugh. "You wouldn't say that if you knew—"

"I know you, John. B-Better than I know anyone," said Florence decidedly, knowing it to be true. "And you were the one I asked to marry me. You're the one I... I thought I could be happy with."

Happiest with , she wanted to say. Gloriously, ecstatically happy. If you just let me in. If you—

Then John pulled his hand away with an apologetic shake of his head and returned to his food. "Very kind of you, Florence. You'll make an excellent wife."

Florence bit her lip, attempting to retain the memory of that moment, that instant when she had known they were connected more deeply than anything she had experienced before.

"And you'll be an excellent husband."