Chapter Nineteen

August 21, 1812

I f she could be anywhere right now, it would not be here.

Florence's pulse was thundering in her ears, her fingers tingled most unpleasantly, and the worst of it was... it had been her decision to come here.

Her mother had been most astonished, sure enough. "You want to what ?"

"I have t-to accept one of them at s-some point," Florence had said, spreading the several invitations she had received that morning alone across the breakfast table. "Eventually. I m-mean, I can't s-stay away forever."

Can I?

The last two words were unspoken, but Florence knew her mother heard them, nonetheless.

It was a pleasant idea, hiding away from the world and never having to trouble herself with it again. Remaining here, at home, where she was safe. Where the only people she would be forced to interact with were servants, those who had served the Bailey family loyally for years, her mother—rapidly becoming bearable—and her brother.

Though tempting, Florence was not quite a fool enough to believe that would be sufficient for the world.

She was a young lady, of good family, and of even better dowry. She had entered Society, and though she was perhaps older than some of the brides walking down the aisle, she was hardly a spinster.

Not yet , Florence thought darkly.

And that meant she had a duty, somehow, to Society itself. She could not simply ignore it, pretending it did not exist. She had to accept, even if she did not like it, that there were certain things a lady of the ton had to do.

And leaving the house more than once a year was one of them.

"You have certainly received a great many invitations," her mother had said with a frown. "More than you usually receive. Even after the engagement... after it was announced."

Florence's stomach had only tightened for a moment. And that was progress, wasn't it? Soon she would be able to hear John—the Marquess of Aylesbury's name without feeling as though her heart had just been ripped from her chest.

Soon everything would go back to how it was.

Boring. Dull. Lonely.

She pushed the thought from her mind. "They obviously wish to see me, now I am no longer engaged to... to the Marquess of Aylesbury."

Her mother's fierce eye was directed at her across the crumpets and butter, but it was not ire directed toward her, rather in her defense. "Vultures. They just want a glimpse of—"

"I know," Florence said quietly. "But eventually I w- will have to go. Accept an invitation. B-Be in Society, after it... it h-has all happened. I s-suppose there's n-no time like the present."

They had argued, needless to say, about which invitation to accept. Mrs. Bailey was determined it should be the one with the greatest prestige, whereas Florence had wished for the smallest gathering, the smallest crowd.

In the end, they compromised, leaving neither of them happy and each of them discomforted as they arrived at Lord Galcrest's dinner party.

"A mere viscount," her mother muttered as they entered the hallway, allowing their shawls to be taken by the footmen. "A scandalous step down after—"

"Th-Thank you, Mama," Florence had said, cutting across her with pink cheeks.

She could already hear the crowd through the doorway. There were hundreds of them.

Fine, perhaps not hundreds of them. In fact, as the two Bailey ladies stepped into the drawing room at Galcrest's footmen's behest, Florence saw there were in fact only about twenty people there.

At least ten too many.

Mrs. Bailey sighed. "A poor crowd."

"A c-crowd, nonetheless," Florence pointed out. "N-Neither of us is happy."

Her mother glanced her way, she could feel her stare. "And you do not wish to stay at home—to remain there, safe?"

Florence swallowed.

Yes , she wanted to say. Yes, I just want to stay in my bedchamber and never leave. Nurse my broken heart, tell myself it would never have worked. That I should never have offered matrimony to a rake such as John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury. That I should have listened to the surprise of the world and wondered why on earth a man like that would wish to marry someone like...

Like her.

Pain and sorrow rose in her like twin flames, and there was nothing Florence could do to quench them. She would just have to learn to live with them, she supposed. The agonies of regret. The concerns about the future. The—

"Yes, that's her!"

The whisper was quiet, but not enough to be entirely lost in the cacophony of sound in the drawing room.

Florence did not need to turn around. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was the object of the gossip.

"—broken engagement—"

"—the Marquess of Aylesbury—"

"—what happened? No one seems to know . . ."

Gritting her teeth and trying to maintain a vague smile, Florence knew she should be grateful, in a way. It had been perfectly possible that John—that the Marquess of Aylesbury, she really should get better accustomed to thinking of him formally—that the Marquess of Aylesbury could have been open about the breach.

That she had been the one to make it.

That knowledge would have been scandalous in Society. If he had left her, she would be pitied. If the truth got out, that it had been Miss Florence Bailey who had walked away from a marriage with a marquess...

Well. Florence knew she certainly would not have received an invitation from Lord Galcrest, for a start.

Turning to her mother, she was immediately distracted by a pair of gentlemen who were pointing at her. Actually pointing!

Florence instinctively reached for her mother's arm, gripping it tightly. She needed the support, to know there was at least one person here at this dinner who was not gleefully wondering how she had managed to ruin her life.

Then she realized how tightly she was clutching at her mother. "I-I am—s-sorry, Mama, I—"

"No apology needed," said Mrs. Bailey, perhaps for the first time in her life not complaining when she had the chance. "I am here for you. Finally."

A wan expression crept across Florence's face as they strode purposefully, as though they had no concerns in the world, across the drawing room. There was a sofa currently unoccupied, and the two Bailey women sat down on it, still arm in arm.

It was a respite Florence sorely needed. Her legs were not going to hold her forever, and the last thing she wanted was to collapse. In public. At a Society event.

Oh, the gossip would be all over London by the morning.

Mrs. Bailey squeezed her hand. "Let them look. Hold your head up high, girl. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

The words were spoken gruffly, but each was spoken with support, love, and comfort.

Strange. In all this, a situation Florence would never have wished for and would never wish upon another living soul, there had been one silver lining.

She and her mother had never been in such good understanding. It may not last, she was aware of that, and there were still a great number of differences between them. But their mutual respect had grown, and the bickering had almost ceased. As had the near constant criticism. It was a marvel.

"It cannot be long before the dinner gong is rung," Mrs. Bailey said out of the corner of her mouth, as though afraid someone might accuse them of talking. "Then it'll be an hour or two of food and banal conversation, and then—"

"H-Home," finished Florence with a sigh. "I c-cannot wait."

Other ladies of the ton surely waited eagerly for invitations from Lord Galcrest. He was, apparently, a pleasant man, not that she had much memory of conversing with him. In fact, now Florence came to think about it, she could not recall ever meeting the man.

"M-Mama."

"Hmmm?"

Florence tried to hold her head high. People were still staring, she could feel the pressure of their gazes upon her skin. "When was it you made Lord Galcrest's acquaintance?"

"Lord Galcrest?" Mrs. Bailey blinked. "Who is he?"

Hoping to goodness no one else had heard her mother's words, Florence's expression faltered. "Why, he is the h-host tonight. I p-presumed the invitation w-was a courtesy to you."

"To me? I am hardly in the stage of life to be receiving compliments in such a manner," her mother muttered as she pulled out her fan and started fluttering it nervously. "The invitation was addressed to you, was it not?"

Florence attempted to remember. There had been so many invitations these last few days, and she had considered only the likelihood of crowds at each one, not the person who had sent it.

Lord Galcrest. Perhaps she had met him. Was he the viscount at the Knights' house party? Or was he—

Though momentarily lost in her own thoughts, she could not remain there for long. The gasps and murmurs spreading around the large drawing room were growing in volume. Florence turned her head to see what everyone was making such a fuss about.

"Perhaps there is a jester, or a musician," murmured Mrs. Bailey. "Some sort of entertainment, you know."

"It does not appear to be an entertainment," said Florence softly, craning her neck. It was not possible to see precisely what everyone was gawping at, but it was evidently something of great interest. Her pulse fluttered painfully. "Ah. Musicians."

A trio of strings had appeared, to the general polite applause of the guests. They began tuning their instruments, light delicate sounds that wafted through the drawing room.

Florence swallowed. This was all becoming too much. "You know, Mama, perhaps we should go home. There are far too many people here and... and... and..."

Her mother nudged her. "And?"

But Florence could not speak. How could she, when the one man in the world that she had no interest in seeing was walking toward her?

It was John.

No. It couldn't be. Surely she was dreaming—though this was more akin to a nightmare. Seated in public, with people around her already gossiping about her, and now John was here?

Florence shot up to her feet, dragging her unsuspecting mother with her as their arms were still linked.

"Florence!"

"It's . . . it's . . ." Florence could not hear to say his name.

He was looking at her. Still tall, still handsome, still with that intoxicating presence which made it difficult to think of anything else. Striding forward through the crowd of guests that clustered around him, probably attempting to ask him all the details of his failed engagement.

Florence's head spun.

She had to get away. She had to leave—there was no possibility of attempting to speak with him. The damned man would just try to reason with her again, try to convince her to accept him again.

And the very real danger was, she might. He was such a heady man, and she loved him so—

No. Florence tried to be firm with herself as her legs quivered and her lungs tightened, every breath an effort. No, she did not love him. Not anymore. How could she love such a man?

"What Lord Galcrest was thinking, inviting both you and—"

"I think that was precisely the point," murmured Florence, her attention transfixed just to the left of the man who was, slowly but surely, making his way to her.

Of course. Why hadn't she thought of that? If neither she nor her mother had any association with Lord Galcrest, someone must have requested that they be invited.

And who was the only person in the ton at this moment who wished to see her?

"He wouldn't dare approach you," whispered her mother at her side.

Florence swallowed hard, but it did nothing to dislodge the lump in her throat. "I wouldn't put it past him."

And she couldn't permit that. Just seeing John was painful in the extreme, her very being aching for him and yet rejecting all potential contact. Most unfortunately, seeing him like this, dressed to the nines in a perfectly fitted suit and looking her way with those dazzling eyes, made Florence realize that she was still very much in love with the brute.

Which could not be borne. She had no wish to be overcome by her emotions, and she certainly couldn't risk accidentally revealing that she was still in love with him.

She couldn't. She wouldn't.

I promise that I am only marrying Florence Bailey for her money. For her stupendous dowry, and nothing else.

John Chance, Aylesbury

The words she had read had been burned into Florence's eyes. She could never unsee them, never look at John without seeing them.

"I need to go," Florence murmured.

"Florence—Florence, where are you—"

But she did not remain to heed her mother's warning, or answer her question, or whatever it was that Mrs. Bailey was going to say.

Slipping her hand from her mother's arm, Florence started for a door. Any door. Anywhere had to be better than here, where onlookers were pointing, gossiping, laughing—where music was playing, clogging up her ears and making it impossible think, where John was—

Anywhere John was had to be a place she must leave.

The trouble was, he was faster than she was. Florence may have been able to outride him, escaping him on a horse without trouble, but there was no steed beneath her. John's strides were a great deal longer than hers, and just as she reached the door—

"Florence."

A whisper in her ear, a hand on her arm—a hand that Florence pulled away from immediately, cheeks blazing with fire as she turned to him.

"I don't want to hear another word from you," Florence hissed. John may not be aware of the staring gazes of everyone present, as he stood there with his back to the room—but she was. Painfully. Her back was pinned against a door that opened toward her, and now... now she was trapped here. Trapped before John.

Oh, this was intolerable.

"You may not want to hear a word from me, but you need to hear some," John said calmly, his voice low.

Florence swallowed as the murmurs around the room increased to a fever pitch. Perhaps they would lose interest, perhaps they would return their attention to the music.

No, that was impossible. This was too much of a scandal for anyone to look away, she thought dully. This was going to be in the scandal sheets tomorrow. And then everyone would know.

"You deserve to hear this," John said. "I—"

"What I deserve is to be left alone," Florence said, hating her voice was quavering with emotion but knowing there was nothing she could do about it. Knowing that she had to speak to make the damned man go away.

The damned man she loved.

John shifted on his feet, making it absolutely clear that she could not escape, blocking her route out of the room. So close that she would press herself into his chest if she attempted to pull the door open.

Florence swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Leave me alone."

Pain flickered across his eyes—or was that just her wishful thinking? It was hard to know. She had imagined this, this first meeting between them in public, so many times the last few days—but at no point had Florence thought it would come this quickly.

The pain of their last conversation was still weighing heavily. How could he—how could they...

"I know I don't deserve a second chance," John murmured.

Florence swallowed. There was nothing she wished to do less than admit to him, even with her body, that she had been utterly undone by their separation. Everything she was, everything she had wanted to be... it had melted away when she had discovered his betrayal.

"Look, here's the truth," said John hurriedly, as though aware she could attempt to leave at any moment. "I was an idiot, a fool, a complete rake to write that note—but more than you think. I was a coward."

Florence blinked. "A . . . a c-coward?"

Now that was an admission she had not foreseen.

The man she loved was nodding slowly as a pair of ladies stood on tiptoe in their attempts to see what was happening. "I didn't... hell, it's hard to admit this. I didn't want to look like a sap in front of my brother. A lovelorn idiot. I... I did not wish to reveal how deeply I already cared for you."

Florence's eyes widened.

It was precisely the sort of thing that she would wish to hear from him. Though that did not mean that it was true—in fact, it was exactly the sort of thing a gentleman would concoct to sound impressive, she was certain.

The question was, had John?

"I wrote the damned thing the day after I returned from the house party, when our agreement had been truly nothing more than convenience," John said, his words getting faster and faster, starting to tumble over each other. "I stopped meaning it within days. Hours. It was so far from my mind that I'd even forgotten I'd written it."

Florence twisted her fingers together before her, trying to remind herself that she was furious with the man.

Because it did make sense. She had seen the horror, the realization, in his eyes when John had seen the note. It was easy to believe that he'd forgotten the note had ever been written.

But it had been written. That thought brought Florence back to her senses. As much as she wanted to believe him, she couldn't.

All she had to do was tell him off, severely, then escape this hell of a drawing room.

Instead, her lips made the words, "I can't risk my heart getting broken again. That's not a chance I'll take."

And before John could reply, before he could even respond, Florence pushed past him along the wall and made for another door.

The people standing in her way scattered, squeals of shock and murmurs of curiosity following Florence with every step. And she was almost there, almost at the door to the hall—at least, she thought it was the door to the hall. And she'd be free, free of—

"Oh, I say!"

"Dear God, he's not—"

"What is the Marquess of Aylesbury doing?"

Despite all her instincts, Florence slowed. She could not ignore those words, the cries of shock, the gasps that filled the drawing room.

Much against her better judgment, and half certain that she would regret this the moment she had done it, Florence halted. She turned on the spot to see what everyone was making such a fuss about.

And she gasped.

"No."

"Florence," John said with a nervous grin from bended knee on the Axminster rug of Lord Galcrest's drawing room. "I—"

"What are you doing?" Florence hissed, heat burning up and across her face.

What did she hate most in the world? Attention? And what was John doing right now? Attracting all the attention of a room toward her!

Well. Toward him. But still!

"I am giving you the proposal you have always deserved," said the Marquess of Aylesbury with a serious expression. "Both the first time I met you, and the second time two years later."

The heat on her face felt like to burst into flames as Florence heard his words. How dare he embarrass her like this? How dare he—

The music the string trio was playing crept into her notice. She knew that tune. There was something about it... something delightfully—

Florence's stomach lurched. It was the aria, from the opera that John had taken her to. The aria which had been sung while he touched her with his fingers, brought her to pleasure—and told her that he loved her.

"Florence Bailey," John said softly from the floor, though he did not need to raise his voice. The whole room was listening now. "I am someone who has always needed second chances, and you know, I think I always will."

"So do I," muttered Florence, unable to help herself.

She also tried not to look at the expression on his face—one her lips wished to mirror.

What was wrong with her? Did she not loathe him for how he had treated her? Like she was nothing more than a pile of coins he was desperate to get his hands on?

"And that is why I am going to dedicate the rest of my life to improving myself and deserving you," John said steadily, his expression unwavering. "Even if it takes years for you to say yes."

Florence swallowed. "Say yes?"

"I was an idiot, and all I want now is to make you happy," John said, ignoring her question as a lady fluttered her fan and muttered something about this being the perfect proposal.

It was all Florence could do not to roll her eyes. Perfect proposal? He hadn't actually asked her to marry him! But as she looked into his eyes, she could see the truth. He loved her. John Chance may not be the most thoughtful of men, but when he did think, he thought of her.

It was enough to make her swoon, but Florence forced herself to remain both upright and aloof. He was the one who had broken her heart. If he needed to do a little more groveling, that was all to the good.

"You want to make me happy?" Florence said, as haughtily as she could manage.

John nodded.

"And what if you never speaking to me again would make me happy?"

It was a challenge for Florence to hold his gaze. She was painfully conscious of all those around them, staring at them as though they were just another part of the entertainment.

And that was what she wanted, Florence told herself firmly. For John never to speak to her again.

John's eyes twinkled. "Well, I admit it would be a very quiet marriage—but if those are your terms, I accept."

An exasperated laugh escaped Florence's lips. "You are completely impossible!"

"Does that mean yes?"

His words were spoken with an eagerness, a desire that Florence had only ever heard when the two of them had been alone. And they were most definitely not alone at the moment. Far from it.

He had chosen the most excruciating way to do this. In public, where she could not escape, without giving her any recourse to think. She should be furious at him.

But she wasn't. Florence hardly knew why she wasn't, but she did know one thing: if she could survive something like this, it was only because she loved him. And being happy without him was an impossibility. And that left... being with him.

She glared at John, then took a step forward. Mutters erupted around the room as she halted just inches before him, where he still knelt on the rug.

Florence frowned. "A second chance once a month?"

"Once a week I think is probably more useful, the rate I'm going," said John cheerfully, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Can I get off my knees now?"

Taking a deep breath, and knowing that she was stepping into a happiness that was simultaneously complete and completely unknown, Florence nodded. "Y-Yes."

How John managed to immediately rise and sweep her into his arms, kissing her so passionately that one woman screamed—a woman who sounded suspiciously like her mother—Florence did not know.

It didn't matter how. The important thing was that she was right where she belonged. In John Chance's arms.