Chapter Fourteen

August 6, 1812

"Y ou really are too kind," murmured Florence as John's stomach jolted.

Fine. Fine! Not just his stomach. Perhaps lower.

But they had relished each other again furtively in his guest bedchamber only yesterday, after a hasty lunch in which they had attempted to devour the food and not each other.

And also days before, when he had called upon Mrs. Bailey at their residence as a courtesy, only to discover—to their mutual delight—that it was only Miss Bailey who was in, not her mother, and that they were otherwise alone.

John tried to force away his wolfish smile now as he opened the opera box door for Florence and watched her pass through.

Slowly. Brushing up against him. Allowing him to breathe her in.

She was doing it on purpose. He had been foolish enough to admit to Florence only that day in the carriage ride to the opera house that he greatly enjoyed it when she purposely walked past him far too closely, brushing up against him.

Was she now going to do it each and every time she passed him?

John bit down a moan of anticipation and followed her into the box he had purchased for that evening. God, he hoped so.

"This is w-wonderful," said Florence with shining eyes as she looked about her. "Truly, I have n-never known anything like it!"

John's hopes fluttered as he heard the truth in her voice. He had never before known the pleasure of giving someone something they had not yet experienced.

Not that . Though, of course, also that.

But just experiences. The Chances had been brought to the opera since they'd been small boys. At least, when they were old enough to behave themselves.

Their mother had always adored the opera. There had been nothing like it, she had always said, for invigorating the spirit and charming the soul.

John's smile faltered, just a bit, as he continued to watch Florence stare about the place in wonder and delight. Goodness. When had he last thought about his mother? A good long while. Years. Almost decades.

"Thank you so much for the treat," said Florence as she settled herself in the plush red velvet chair. "It m-must have cost a fortune."

John's stomach lurched.

It had. Or at least, it had cost someone a fortune. He would have to hope Cothrom would not bother to look at his accounts until after the wedding, when he would be in a position to pay him back.

Forty-five thousand pounds.

Strange, it had also been a great deal of time since he had last thought about the dowry. Florence's dowry. It was a part of her, he supposed, and a part many gentlemen would have concentrated on.

He certainly had, when he had first heard.

So when had the dowry ceased to be of any interest, and the woman herself become all that he could think of?

"Come, sit," Florence said, glancing over her shoulder. "You can't stand there f-forever."

John nodded, and stepped around the chairs to seat himself beside her.

The stammer was back. It was something he was learning to understand better and better with each passing day. When it was just the two of them, in private, with no one else around them and nothing to interrupt their conversation, it almost completely disappeared. When they were in public, it was nearly impossible for Florence to string three words together without stammering.

And when they were like this, in an almost private space yet within the realm of Society, there was a halting lilt to her words. Like a bird learning its song.

"John?"

John blinked. Florence was gazing with concern. He must have been sitting there for a full minute without speaking.

He forced a smile, one which became natural as he took in the delicate red sheen of her hair, the diamond earbobs, the shell-pink lips pursed with concern. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" Florence asked quietly.

It was not like him to hesitate, but he had been thinking about this a great deal. Too much, if truth be told.

When to tell Florence he was in love with her.

Because he was. John could no longer deny it, and most importantly, he no longer wished to. Keeping that sort of truth from Florence no longer felt important, it felt ridiculous. Why should she not know just how deeply he felt about her?

Because , muttered the little voice in the back of his mind that always emerged in tricky situations such as these, because you don't know, do you?

Love? What did you know about it? How could you even tell?

Because he had never felt like this before, John reasoned with himself as Florence waited patiently for him to reply. Because everything in his being was centered not on himself, but on Florence.

Because her happiness was not just everything, it was the only thing.

Because being with her made his torso twist and his lungs constrict and everything in him shudder at the thought of not being with her.

What was that, if not love?

Sounds like lust to me , muttered the irritating voice. And you've been in lust before, haven't you? And then what happened?

"John?"

John swallowed. "Just . . . just admiring the view."

Florence, completely ignorant of the war in his mind, turned to look out over the balcony of their box. "Yes, I suppose it is spectacular."

He did not follow her gaze. He did not need to. He had seen it before, knew the Royal Opera House well. The hundreds of seats, the high ceiling designed for perfect sound, the wide stage with the red velvet curtain currently pulled across. There were the lights to ensure the stage could be seen by all. There was the orchestra pit, musicians currently tuning their violins, cellos, trumpets, oboes, all in readiment for the delightful performance. There was the conductor, arguing rapidly it seemed with someone in the Royal Opera House livery.

It was spectacle and glamor and splendor.

None of it was new. None of it was exciting. None of it was Florence.

After a moment, she turned back to him and flushed. "You're not looking at it."

"I'm looking at the view I was admiring," said John, allowing just a hint of a tease in his voice. "That's all."

And she flushed, yet continued to meet his eye with a boldness that accompanied her shyness without replacing it. "You do talk nonsense."

"Only most of the time," John quipped, his heart in his mouth.

Was that how she would take his admission of affection? As nonsense? Was it possible he had spoken so much nonsense in the past that Florence Bailey would not believe him when he professed his love?

He should have told her last week. That would have been the intelligent thing to do, but then, John had not had much blood in his brain during the moment of lovemaking. Most of it had been... well. South of his brain.

Very far south.

And the trouble was, he was behind.

"John, I . . . I love you."

How Florence had found the courage to admit to such a thing, he did not know. It put him to shame, made it impossible to meet her eye at times.

John's chest swelled as he remembered the exact tone of Florence's voice as she had told him she loved him. She was so brave. So utterly beyond anything he deserved, he could well admit that.

And in just a few short days, they would be husband and wife.

He had to tell her. Now was as good a time as ever.

"Florence," John began.

"No."

He blinked. "Wh-What? What do you mean, no—"

"No, we are not going to make love in this opera box," Florence said smoothly, keeping her expression intact as her eyes glittered. "No... n-no matter how much we might want to."

John's stomach stirred. Now that was an idea. "I wasn't going to... though I like the idea that you were thinking of it, I must say."

It was Florence's turn to flush. "I-I thought . . . that you . . . John!"

"Don't you John me, you were the one thinking of it," he chuckled, delight soaring through him. Oh, that he had found a woman with such an appetite as this! "You, not me."

"You're making me flush," said Florence, raising a gloved hand to her cheek.

"Good. I'm trying to tell you how... how happy I am."

She stared for a moment, then lowered her hand to take his. "I am h-happy too."

Good, good, everything was good so far. But he wasn't just happy, was he? John had gone beyond happiness, beyond what he'd thought possible for two people to share. And not just in the bedchamber.

John sturdied himself, shuffling in his seat as he prepared himself to say the words. "It's just—after all this time, I had never thought. Damn. What I'm trying to say is..."

His voice trailed away as he stared into Florence's open expression.

Open, accepting, and far more caring than he had ever been. He did not deserve her.

"I-I d-don't want vultures circling me for my m-money. Ignoring me, happy to m-marry anyone attached to the numbers. I d-don't want to be w-wed for my b-bank balance. You need respectability. You aren't c-cruel. I chose you."

He most certainly would not deserve her if he could not bring herself to say the one thing that was left remaining between them to be said. That he loved her. That he loved no other, had never loved before—he was sure of that now. Now he knew what love was.

"We have a second chance," John said, his voice breaking, but he forced himself to keep going. "A second chance, one I never thought to—"

"Hush!" Florence said, squeezing his hand then releasing it.

John stared. Hush? Was that all she could say to him, just as he was about to pour his heart out and—

A moment later, he understood. The conductor had tapped on his music stand, the musicians were ready, and the curtain pulled back across the stage. The opera was about to begin.

John leaned back in his chair, disappointed.

Well, it was not as though he didn't like opera, he thought as the lamps were extinguished and the audience's attention was fixed upon the stage. The music started, crescendoed, filling all the air in the place.

But he had only just got up the courage to tell her. Tell Florence what she meant to him. He had to tell her.

John moved closer, leaning over the arm of his chair and suddenly breathing in the heady scent of flowers that was Florence. The scent dazzled him, interrupting for a moment his ability to think or even see. When he blinked, Florence had tilted her head.

"Watch the opera," she murmured. "You've paid for the seats, you should enjoy it!"

John tried to push aside the thoughts of cost from his mind. Future John could worry about that.

"I just wanted to say," he murmured in a low voice, just loud enough for her to hear over the soaring soprano who had taken to the stage. "Tell you, Florence, that—"

"Hush, I'm listening," she whispered, not turning to look at him this time, attention fixed on the stage.

John swallowed, then leaned back.

Well, he had tried. Not very hard, admittedly, and perhaps not in the best place. It had been foolish of him to attempt to tell Florence just how his heart ached for her in the middle of an opera.

Particularly this one. He'd forgotten how Silvana ended, until this moment.

Damn.

John managed to pay attention to the music for... what, about five minutes? It had to be at least that, though the aria the tenor was singing was still going on. The trouble was, the need to tell Florence he loved her had built up to such a fever pitch inside him, it had to come out now.

One way, or the other.

He leaned closer to her again. "Florence, I need to tell you—"

"I s-said hush," Florence said with a smile.

John took her hand in his. "But I—"

"John Chance, be quiet," she said with a teasing grin that made his stomach jolt. Damn, he loved it when she ordered him around. "Or..."

And he saw something new flicker in Florence's eyes. Something different, something he had never seen before.

A determination—no, that wasn't it. It was more like she had made a decision that she knew in some way was wrong, that was what it looked like. Yet even as he was able to identify it, the look did not disappear. If anything, it just grew stronger.

Florence turned to look at him fully, and John's manhood twitched at the calm possession of her expression. "I told you to be quiet. But that d-doesn't mean... doesn't mean you cannot show me what you wanted to say."

John blinked. "Show you?"

What on earth did the woman mean? They were at the opera, there was surely sufficient entertainment before them. She did not wish for... oh, an interpretative dance, did she? He was hardly suited to—

"W-With your fingers," Florence breathed, curling her own around his before placing his hand on her thigh. "Show me."

John stared at his hand on her thigh, then back to Florence's eyes.

She didn't . . . she couldn't mean what he . . . could she?

Florence gave him a shy look. "I'd like that."

Oh, hell.

John swallowed. Well, there was only one way to find out whether he had guessed correctly, and that was to make the attempt.

Dear God, if he was right, he most certainly did not deserve her.

Their box had been chosen carefully. John had known Florence would not wish to be gawped at by the ton at large, so had selected a box that was at all angles almost impossible for anyone in the main audience to look in at them. As far as they were concerned, it was an empty box.

That meant that as long as they were careful...

John shifted in his chair, selecting a good angle, then leaned to place a kiss on Florence's left shoulder. "You're sure?"

She quivered at his touch, the sensation of his breath caressing her skin. Then nodded.

Try as he might, John could not prevent a sigh escaping his lips. He had known, one day, he would marry. He had hoped to find a woman he could stomach for more than twenty minutes together. That was, it appeared, a success in the eyes of Society. It was certainly more than most gentlemen managed.

To find a woman like this—shy yes, but passionate—was more than he could have hoped. And now...

John's fingers curled around Florence's thigh, almost moaning aloud at the responsiveness of her body. Though her stays, he could see her nipples peaking. She wanted him. She wanted—

She probably did not even know what she wanted. That was fine. He knew what he could give her.

Slowly, inch by inch, John's fingers curled together and crept the fabric of Florence's skirt up. Up, past her ankle. Up, past her knee. Up, until—

"John," Florence breathed.

It was encouragement, he could tell. There was a need in that voice he had heard before. He was starting to know it well.

Swallowing hard at the outrageous thing he was about to do, John's fingers skimmed the silk of Florence's stocking. Higher, higher, until he reached flesh. Warm, quivering flesh. Her thigh was even warmer now there wasn't two layers of fabric between them. And if he just trailed his fingers here, curving down her thigh toward—

Florence moaned, shifting her hips, pushing her buttocks down the seat so her secret place reached his fingers sooner.

For an instant, John closed his eyes, unable to take in the sight of her panting eagerness. Then his eyes snapped open again. He didn't want to miss a moment of this.

Biting his lip from stopping himself from muttering her name, John slowly trailed a finger along her slit. She was wet. Though he had promised himself he would go slowly, it was impossible to restrain his eagerness. He slipped a finger inside her.

"J-John."

"You said," he pointed out in a dark voice. "You said to show you. This is how I can show you."

His pulse was throbbing in his ears and it wasn't the only part of him that was throbbing, but John forced himself to remain controlled.

So, he couldn't tell Florence that he loved her.

But he could damn well show her.

Slowly, he curled the finger inside her, luxuriating in her wetness, the welcome her body gave him. He stroked, moaning at the whimper Florence gave as her body twitched.

She deserved more. He needed to give it to her.

Not ceasing the gentle stroke he had already begun with one finger, John gradually slipped in another. And then a third. Florence's softness welcomed in, swelling against him as her ardor increased.

Soon her breathing was ragged, her hips twisting against him, and still John did not turn to look at her. There was something intoxicating about touching her like this, pleasuring her like this as they both watched the opera continuing before them on the stage—as though they were just here to experience a little light culture.

While instead, Florence was experiencing the twisting, flickering worship of his fingers inside her.

The mere thought almost made John come, but he forced himself to concentrate on her delight. It was Florence who needed to know how much she was adored, how precious she was.

How she was everything.

"Florence," John murmured as he slowly increased his rhythm. There was no answer. "Florence."

"Y-Y-Yes," Florence gasped. "Yes, yes, yes—"

"I have something to tell you, and you can't stop me now," he said with a teasing grin. "You're in my power."

"N-No I'm—"

"And I'm in yours," admitted John, just loudly enough for her to hear. "I'm going to make you come, Florence, and there's nothing you can do about it."

She whimpered again, her hands gripping the arms of the chair, and though she could pull away from him, force him to stop, ask him to stop and he would—she remained there, at the mercy of his lovemaking.

And just as she was about to reach her peak, when he could feel the thrumming pace of her nub, John closed the gap between his lips and Florence's ear, and whispered three short words.

"I love you."

Florence spasmed, her cry swallowed up by the bellowing duet on the stage. Her body quivered, her quim tightening around his fingers as her core exploded, and John could have wept to feel and see the pleasure that he gave her.

This was it. This was everything.

He could spend the rest of his life pleasing this woman and receiving nothing in return, and it would be enough.

Florence was more than enough.

Eventually she stilled. A few moments after that, she blinked a few times before meeting his eyes.

"That . . . that was . . ."

"I know," John said with a wicked smile, his pulse thundering as though it had been he himself who had been brought to a peak. His fingers shifted within Florence's folds and she gasped, a gasp that became a moan as he started to gently stroke. "Ready for a second?"