Chapter Twelve

"W ell," said John slowly with a grin he could not quite hide. "It looks like you'll be staying here."

Florence glanced up, then returned to the window. There was not a hint of concern on her face. Perhaps it was her lack of apprehension that had excitement thrumming through John.

Well, she hadn't said no . . .

The rain thundered against the glass. He supposed he should have guessed. Florence had, after all, mentioned the sense of rain in the air. All this heavy heat for so long, the weather would have to break sometime. It would be a relief, in truth, to have all this strange atmosphere blown away by the winds.

A flash of light—and an answering roll of thunder that sounded far too close for anyone to venture out tonight.

Particularly if they were a specific young lady he certainly didn't wish to be drenched.

"You should not be so silly." Florence's voice was so low, it was almost impossible to hear over the thrashing rain. "I only came for dinner."

The pair of them were standing by one of the huge sash windows in the drawing room. Despite Humphreys's advice, they had pulled back the curtains and were looking up at the storm as it raged.

The rain was so heavy, John could almost feel it pouring onto his skin. Cleansing, changing him, relieving him of the habits of the past.

He almost shook his head and laughed as the droplet of a thought trickled through his brain. What on earth was he thinking? A little rain couldn't alter the past, couldn't change his habits or the things he had done.

He glanced over at Florence. Her eyes were wide, clearly delighting in the drama of the storm.

And something in him twisted.

But she could do it. She could alter the past, make it seem... better. Well, not better in and of itself, naturally. But if the cost was that he'd had to endure it all to come to her...

Then it was worth it. Florence Bailey was worth it.

"I can't let you go home in this," said John softly—too softly. He strengthened his voice as he realized she had not heard him over the tattoo the rain was drumming down onto Aylesbury House. "I can't let you go home in this awful weather, Florence. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not," she said as though attempting not to laugh. "It's past ten o'clock, I have to—"

"You don't have to do anything when the weather is this awful," John said firmly. "I mean, look at it!"

He watched Florence's gaze as it flickered across the garden. There was not a great deal of it at the front of Aylesbury House—that was the price one paid for living so close to the center of London. Yet even the little lawn and flowerbeds that the house afforded were being battered by the storm. Flowers had lost their last summer buds, there was a branch from the silver birch lying across a rose bush, and John didn't think the magnolia would ever be the same again.

A shiver flickered through him. What, let Florence go out in that? It would practically be murder—he would be responsible for anything that happened to her. The fact it was mightily convenient had nothing to do with anything.

"You are not stepping a foot out of this house while that storm rages," John said, speaking over the thoughts pouring through his mind which were not very gentlemanly. "You think I could permit you to risk—"

"It's not so big a risk," Florence began to say. "It's just—dear Lord!"

He nearly swore at the sight before them. Just beyond the hedge of Aylesbury House, toward the road, was a man riding along the street on horseback. Or at least, he was trying to. The wind was so overwhelming that the poor beast was essentially moving backward. Each time the man's steed raised a leg, it was shunted back over the cobbles, its shod hooves unable to find a purchase.

John and Florence watched, equally transfixed, as the man and his horse disappeared from sight... going the opposite direction from the way they faced.

"Absolutely not," said John with what he hoped was an air of decision. "I would never forgive myself if..."

He swallowed.

If something happened to you.

That was what he was going to say. It was the sort of thing one said, after all, to... to the people one loved.

Oh hell's bells.

Florence slipped a hand in his, and John fought against the surprising instinct to bring her fingers to his lips. "You're up to something, aren't you?"

He tried to laugh. "You think I can make it rain?"

"I think you would do anything to get your own way," she said, squeezing his hand. "So yes, I suspect you of performing a magic ritual for rain before I arrived. Do you deny it?"

Their mingled laughter was drowned out, just for a flash, by the lightning and accompanying thunder which appeared to be getting even closer.

It was all working out perfectly.

That was what John would not admit. Certainly not aloud, and hardly even to himself in the privacy of his own mind.

This dinner had been intended to be a chance for him to spend even more time with the woman he was starting to care about too much. Far, far too much. This whole marriage of convenience was supposed to get him a pleasant wife he knew he could stomach, some respectability now Cothrom was constantly at him, and access to her funds to boot.

"I sent you to that house party to behave yourself. To get away from London and the gambling hells. Not to propose to random women!"

And that was it.

That was supposed to be it. But for the last few days now, John could hardly deny that he enjoyed Florence's company. The more time they spent together, the more natural it felt, the more obvious. It felt almost as though he had been fighting against the tide his whole life, yet when he stepped to her side...

He no longer had to fight.

John swallowed and tried to focus on the storm. She was beautiful and shy, clever and reticent, stammering at times, and yet at others, clearer and more precise than half the people in London.

She was an enigma. She made no sense.

And now his life was starting to make no sense without her.

"Goodness, that w-was a serious thought."

John started, and realized he was still holding hands with her. The sensation had become so natural, he'd hardly noticed it. "What was?"

"Whatever passed through your mind just then," said Florence, a pink to her cheeks, as though she were being impertinent. "What were you thinking?"

The chances of John actually admitting what he had been thinking were absolutely zero. Or at least, so close to zero that there was no point even attempting to calculate those odds or to try to put his thoughts into proper words.

Thinking about how special you are.

Thinking about how fortunate I am.

Thinking about how, with every passing day, this marriage becomes less and less convenient...

John swallowed. "Just . . . just the storm."

"Liar."

He had to laugh at that, even with Florence's shy smile making his whole body quiver. "You used to be a lot more reticent to give your true opinion of me."

"That is probably true," she said amiably, looking up at the window as though to avoid looking at him.

John continued to gaze at her face, the elegant curve of her nose, the achingly tempting lips. Somehow, he found he simply couldn't look away. "I prefer you this way."

Florence turned back to him, cheeks flushed. "You mean you didn't like me when—"

"No!" Hell, would he ever be able to get his words right with this woman? "No, I meant—Florence, you are pretty damn perfect as far as I can tell, and you could spend the rest of your life as you were when we first met. But this way, I know you better. And that's... that's an honor. An honor I don't think many people have."

John was surprised to hear an earnestness in his voice that had never been there before. And it was genuine. He truly meant what he said.

Florence looked as though she was not quite sure. "I... I-I don't know."

How could he explain it? "I like... I like that you're shy. I like that you prefer to only speak when you wish to. I like that you have all these wild and interesting thoughts that you don't share with all and sundry. And I like..."

For a moment, his voice faltered. How could it continue, when Florence was looking at him like that? Her fingers still entwined with his own, John had presumed that was the height of the intimacy they would share.

And yet perhaps it wasn't. This look they were sharing, a shimmering, unspoken knowledge between them, a sense of openness and vulnerability and affection, was something much deeper. He could no longer deny it, either to himself or to Florence, even if it were only communicated through this heated look.

Affection. He felt a deep affection for this woman, deeper than he had known himself capable. He could feel it demanding more of him than had ever been expected before.

It was frightening. But he would not step back.

"I like you," John said simply.

It might have been a few heartbeats they stood there. It might have been a year or two. However long it was, John wanted to stay in that moment, inhabit it, remain there forever. Just the two of them.

Another roll of thunder echoed around the drawing room and Florence jumped. They both chuckled, the tension dissipating from the room.

John glanced out of the window, and his resolve stiffened. So did other parts of him, but it was the resolve that mattered, he told himself.

"Look," he said, "I could not permit you to leave Aylesbury House in a storm of this magnitude. It simply wouldn't be—"

"I could take a carriage," Florence said, interrupting him with a swift grin. "How bad can it be, really?"

Just at that moment, a bolt of lightning jagged to the spire of a church about three streets away. London lit up, glowing brighter than the midday sun, and when the thunder rolled, it sounded like the heavens were cracking open.

"Quite bad," John said with a shrug, releasing Florence's hand. If he kept holding it much longer, he'd find himself using other methods to persuade her—and that would certainly be most unacceptable. Probably. "Besides, I've lent my brother to my carriage. Carriage to my brother."

There was a sparkle of delight in Florence's eyes. "I beg your par—"

"You know what I meant," said John with a dry laugh. Since when did he get his words all tangled up—and with a woman? "And there's hardly going to be a hackney coach about the place."

Florence did not reply. She stepped toward the window, placing a hand on the glass and peering up at the sky as best she could.

John watched her. There was something intoxicating about seeing her like that. Illuminated in moments by the flashes of lighting, but otherwise a mostly dark silhouette. A figure he knew well—or at least, as well as one can just by looking at it. Continuously.

There was no one about. He could just step forward, push her up against the glass and—

"My mother will be worried," said Florence delicately.

John swallowed the aching need that had suddenly arisen, and tried to think. Hang the mother , his innermost being wanted to cry. She was certainly an unpleasant person. Perhaps some fear would do her good.

He regretted the thought immediately. What was he, cruel?

No, he may have been thoughtless, irresponsible, and childish—fine, he had most definitely been all those things, and more to boot—but he was not cruel.

John stepped forward and placed what he hoped was a comforting, and most importantly, chaste hand on Florence's shoulder. "She will understand. She would much rather you stayed inside, where it was safe, than risk—"

"But it seems so ridiculous, d-doesn't it?" said Florence wistfully. "My home is just six streets away. Seemingly no distance at all, and yet a little weather..."

The glass pane shook in its frame as the gale whipped around the house. "I wouldn't call that a little weather," said John dryly.

Florence gave him a brief nod before returning to the window. "I suppose not."

They stood there for a moment in silence.

And that was what John should have continued to do. Just remain there, standing in silence, watching the storm in the safety of Aylesbury House with Florence standing before him, his hand on her shoulder.

And perhaps, in another world, in another life, that is precisely what he would have done.

But John could not help himself. He was John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, and he had never turned down an opportunity like this. He certainly wasn't going to when it came to Florence Bailey.

John swallowed, his breath hitching in his throat as his hand slowly... moved.

Gently at first. His fingers traced a tender line down Florence's shoulder, down the back of her arm. Inch by inch, his touch so light it could almost be a breath, John allowed himself to focus on the sensation of his fingers trailing to her wrist.

And Florence did not push him away. She did not even turn around, or give any sign that she was unhappy with what he was doing.

Much to the contrary. John's pulse thrummed with the strength of the rain as Florence's shoulders dropped, a small smile just visible on the curve of her mouth.

And that was what increased his boldness beyond the level of propriety. John lifted his hand from her wrist and this time returned it to her shoulder—but as he trailed his fingers this time, it was not down Florence's arm.

No, it was down her back.

A guttural moan shuddered through him as he did so. The softness of Florence's skin had been replaced by the gentle coarseness of the muslin, but that did not matter. He could feel so much more. The pull of her corset, the delicate dip of her waist, and then—

"John," Florence said, stepping one foot away. Away from his questing fingers.

There was no censure in her tone, for which John supposed he should be grateful. But it was painful, having the distance between them suddenly increase.

"Florence," he said, astonished to find that his voice quavered, just slightly. "I—you'll have to stay. You must see that, just for the night."

Just for the night.

How long was it until their wedding—days? Weeks?

Hours would be too long. John knew that now—knew just how desperately he craved her, how simply being close to Florence was no longer enough.

He didn't just want close. He needed more.

Florence turned slowly on her heels, her hazel eyes examining him closely as she tucked a curl of wayward red hair behind her ear.

And when she spoke, it was quiet, but with all the certainty of a woman who had examined the situation and moved beyond mere guessing. "You want to bed me, don't you?"

A searing flush erupted across John's face. It was most unaccountable, and certainly not something he could recall ever enduring before. Honestly! The very idea!

John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, did not get embarrassed!

Except he did now. "I-I don't know what you mean?"

Florence's look was steady, amused, and not willing to back down. But the strength in her only increased John's desire. Not that he was lacking in it before.

"I think you do," she said, taking a step closer to him. "You... y-you don't have to deny it. I can read you like a book, John Chance."

And she could. John wasn't sure whether to be gratified and delighted, or horrified at how swiftly Florence had learned how to identify his teasing from his lies. It was most disconcerting. He had gone through the majority of his adult life always being the one able to tell what was going to happen next. The next card, the next fist, the next flirtation.

And here he was, faced with one of the shyest wallflowers in the ton , and he had no idea what to do next. No idea what she would do next.

Oh, he knew what he wanted . . .

John swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "I'm not the sort of book young ladies should be reading."

Any other woman would have been offended, or shocked, perhaps even mortified at such a suggestive comment.

But not Florence. Her smile was accompanied by a blush, but when she spoke, there was almost no quaver in her words. "I-I did wonder, when I suggested a marriage of convenience, if you would wish to bed me before you went through with it. The marriage itself, I mean."

John swallowed. At least, he tried to swallow. There was no moisture in his throat, nor did he seem to have any ability to control his own body.

How were they having this conversation? How was he, more importantly, having this conversation with Miss Florence Bailey?

When they had first met, he had largely discounted her. A pretty face, a terrible conversationalist, and someone who had been entertaining for a few weeks and that was all.

That was all? How could he have been so blind?

Clearing his throat as best he could, and knowing this conversation could go wrong very, very swiftly if he were not careful, John said, "I may have had hopes—expectations, certainly not."

Florence did not look away. "But you did have hopes."

Dear God, it was uncomfortable to admit this. And yet John could not think of anyone else he would prefer to have this conversation with. If he had to have it with someone, it should be her.

"Y-Yes."

"You sound like me."

John smiled weakly. Yes, the tables had in some way turned, though he still wasn't sure how. There was a new confidence in Florence, one which only emerged when they were together. Or at least, he had seen no sign of it at any other time.

"And I suppose you know what you are doing," she said softly. "In the bedchamber, I mean."

I hardly know what I'm doing now , John wanted to say. He appeared to be stumbling down a path without any map, signs, or hope. Though there must be a route to getting under Florence's skirts, he was certain of that—why else would she have raised the topic?

But where once he would have been satisfied with just being... well, satisfied, John knew now that he wanted more. A true connection. A sharing, instead of a taking. An intimacy, not an interaction.

Dear God, what was wrong with him?

"John?" Florence took another step forward. They were close now, very close. The idea of "too close" was impossible to comprehend, but her proximity was certainly making comprehension difficult. "John, you do know what you're doing, don't you? When it comes to... to pleasing a lady?"

God help him. "Yes."

"Even . . . even one who is, perhaps, inexperienced?"

John's gaze roved over the untouched skin, the innocent eyes—

Then saw something new in them, as another roll of thunder echoed through the drawing room and a flash of lightning lit up the beautiful woman before him: a gleam of lust. Florence wanted him.

Perhaps not so innocent after all.

"Inexperienced, yes," he managed to say aloud. "Though to tell the truth, I have never bedded a virgin before."

"But you are experienced. You know what... wh-what a woman likes. What a woman does not like. You showed me that, in Lord Bysshe's hallway."

John's mouth was so dry now, he was amazed he could actually speak. "Every... every woman is different."

Florence nodded sagely, as though they were discussing nothing more than the terrible weather outside. "But you can learn, can't you? The way a woman wants to be t-touched?"

And it was that faltering moment which pushed John over the edge. "We... damn. Florence, we cannot be having this conversation!"

He had moved away, taken at least three steps, before Florence's voice halted him in his tracks, making it impossible to move, impossible to speak—almost impossible to think.

"But I want to. Not have this conversation, I mean—but be touched by you. Make... make love to me, John."