Chapter Three

July 6, 1812

I t was all Florence could do to survive the next four and twenty hours, but somehow, she did.

Precisely how, she was not sure. If her mother were to ask—and she was certain her mother would ask, as there was no hope that the news of the Marquess of Aylesbury's attendance at the house party could be kept quiet—then Florence would tell her she did nothing but act in a most ladylike manner.

Which was true.

What she did was very ladylike.

"So sorry to hear that your headache persists," said Mrs. Knight sotto voce from the doorway. "I will of course leave you to rest. And if the pain has not subsided by this evening and you are unable to descend for dinner, I will send for the doctor."

Florence forced herself to sit upright. "Oh, n-no, I would not w-wish you to be p-put to any trouble—"

"No trouble at all, no trouble at all—the least I could do for one of our guests," whispered Mrs. Knight, perhaps thinking she was playing the part of the perfect hostess. "Now, rest, Miss Bailey."

The bedchamber door closed with a gentle snap.

Florence had fallen back on the bed with a heavy sigh. If this continued on much longer, she would end up with a real headache.

The trouble was, she couldn't plead a headache to escape John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, forever. Not without incurring talk. And if there was one thing her mother loathed even more than her daughter's reticence for company, it was talk.

There was no possibility this could be kept quiet if Mrs. Knight had to call for a doctor. Florence's mother would be informed, and Mrs. Bailey would have a great deal to say about it when Florence returned home.

Which meant she was faced with no other option.

As the dinner gong sounded, Florence sighed and rose from the bed. It took her but ten minutes to elegantly pin her red hair up, and she wove a ribbon among the strands to make it look like she was making a bit of an effort. Her gown was perfectly fine for dinner—it was perhaps one of the more splendid she had brought. After slipping on her earbobs, her gloves, and a ruby bracelet that matched the glittering gems in her ears, Florence glared at her reflection with a stoical expression.

"It's just dinner," she told herself calmly. As ever, her voice was steady when she was alone. "Dinner. There will be plenty of people there, a great number of conversations occurring around you. The chances of you needing to speak to... to him, are slight. You won't even have to look at him."

And telling herself she was heartened by the thoughts, rather than actually being heartened, Florence stepped out onto the landing.

There was no one else milling about.

This was all to the good , Florence thought as she stepped down the elegant staircase and toward the drawing room where drinks would be served before the second dinner gong was rung. Better to have every other house guest in there, creating a great deal of noise and distraction, so she could slip in, speak to no one—particularly not handsome and charming rogues from one's past—and then eat in similar solitude. Or at least in silence. Solitude was not something she would be blessed with for a good while.

It was therefore quite to Florence's astonishment that she entered the drawing room, with its lace and chintz and once again roaring fire, to find...

No one.

No one except John Chance, the Marquess of Aylesbury.

Florence almost tripped over her gown, she was so momentarily astounded. How was this possible? Where was everyone? And why, of all the people at this house party, was it him she found here alone?

The Marquess of Aylesbury turned, and his wolfish smile was just as Florence remembered it. Just as hungry. Just as possessive. Just as—

But she could not think that way! It was mortification she felt at seeing John standing there by the drinks cabinet, and nothing more.

Nothing , Florence thought, more .

"Ah, Miss Bailey," said the Marquess of Aylesbury calmly, as though they had met casually while walking in Hyde Park.

But they hadn't. They were alone. Unchaperoned.

It was all going to happen again.

No, it wasn't , Florence thought firmly. Definitely not. She was older, wiser, and much more wary.

Even if parts of her warmed at just the mere sight of the man. Stupid, traitorous body. Idiotic, foolish heart.

"Wh-Wh-Where is everyone?" she managed to say. Eventually. Oh, it was excruciating, her tongue never obeying her when she was in public. Why on earth couldn't she just speak?

John shrugged.

There was something about the way a man shrugged, Florence thought as she stood there, unsure whether to retreat upstairs or remain here. When men shrugged, it said so much more than mere words could. It said how little they cared, and how it really wasn't their concern, and that even if someone attempted to make it their concern, they simply wouldn't bother.

A gentleman's shrug could say all that, but a nobleman's shrug said even more.

It said, such cares are beneath me. They are the cares of others, cares for those who do not have such breeding as I, the breeding to escape almost all cares in the world.

Florence found her brow was furrowing with irritation.

Well, she shouldn't be surprised. It wasn't as though John—as though the Marquess of Aylesbury had ever cared about much. Except himself.

"I was sorry to hear you have been suffering a headache, and for so long," came the irritating man's genteel voice. "Most unfortunate. You did not consider giving up and going home?"

There was something in the way that he spoke that made Florence's cheeks flush.

Not that it was an impressive feat to manage. It took almost no effort on the part of anyone around her to make her flush.

But John—the Marquess of Aylesbury was different. They had... well, not quite a sordid past. But a shared past, most certainly. A past Florence hoped to goodness no one else at the Knights' house party would discover.

"W-Well, I'll just s-sit here and wait for them. People. G-Guests," Florence said, walking past John as swiftly as she could manage so that she could reach the sofa again.

And she hesitated.

A sofa wasn't safe, was it? This red sofa may be comfortable, but it had permitted her a most awkward encounter just the day before when he had been so bold as to seat himself beside her without requesting her permission.

A sofa allowed intimacy. Closeness.

The man had touched her hand!

No, a sofa simply wasn't safe.

Swerving so rapidly Florence almost lost her balance for the second time since entering the drawing room that evening, she quickly located an armchair and sat there instead. A small armchair. So small that it was barely wide enough for her own hips.

But that was of no matter, was it? The point was, he could not sit beside her.

The Marquess of Aylesbury was smiling when Florence looked up—smiling as though he knew precisely what had gone through her mind.

The cheek of the man, to smile at her like that!

"You aren't going to leave? Retreat?" he said, stepping over to her and leaning against the fireplace which was a mere five feet from her.

Florence swallowed.

Retreat. Yes, that was her nature; to run and hide from anything placing her in the center of attention. She would rather disappear into the ground than perform at a recital, or scrub a kitchen floor than play charades at a gathering such as this.

But to admit defeat to such a man, within only four and twenty hours of his coming...

For some reason, and Florence was not sure why it mattered, she would not relent. If anyone was going to leave this house party in disgrace, it would be him.

"I-I don't have a carriage," Florence heard herself say.

Then groaned internally at the foolishness of her comments.

Truly, was that all she was going to say? Not that she had no need to leave the Knights, or that she had no intention of retreating, or that he should be the one to go?

No. No, her foolish mouth could say nothing save that she had no carriage.

She could not blame the Marquess of Aylesbury for grinning wildly at her words. "But you do wish to leave, don't you, Florence?"

"Miss Bailey," Florence corrected, heat blossoming up her décolletage.

How dare he speak to her with such—such intimacy!

Perhaps it would have been warranted, once upon a time, but that time was over, Florence told herself resolutely. The... the connection they had, whatever it truly was, was over. Never to be repeated. A mistake. A mistake she had made almost to such detriment to herself.

She had thought she had left that all behind. All the longing, the need for—

Florence swallowed. "There are only f-five days left of the house p-party," she said, forcing her mind onto practical matters. Yes, that was it. Five days. That was all. "I can m-manage five days."

John's eyes gazed into hers with a force that she could barely match.

She glanced down.

"I am sure you can," came his quiet voice. There was a teasing air to it, but certainly not as much as she had expected. When Florence looked up, John had not taken his attention from her face. "I am sure there are many things about you, Florence, that you are capable of. And many things I do not know."

"Miss Bailey," she said, her throat dry.

Why did hearing her name spoken by that man, with those lips, make her mouth so dry? Make her breathing quicken, just for a moment, before she got it under control?

You know why , a tiny voice from the back of her mind murmured. That moment, two years ago. You thought he was going to propose marriage, you were sure of it. Weeks of conversations, leading up to that moment. And instead, he—

"May I be so bold as to offer you a glass of Mr. Knight's finest wine, Miss Bailey?" said the Marquess of Aylesbury formally.

Florence blinked. His manner was such a departure from what had gone before, it was rather like emotional tennis. Her fingers tightened around the arms of the chair, but what response could she give? It would be most strange to refuse a glass of wine before dinner. And besides, she could do with something to fortify.

But where was everyone? Where were Mr. and Mrs. Knight, Mr. Lister, Mrs. Pullman? Surely she and the Marquess of Aylesbury could not be the only people in the house?

"Miss Bailey?"

"Y-Yes?" Florence stammered.

Evidently he thought her response was to the earlier question, for the Marquess of Aylesbury stepped away from the fireplace and toward the drinks cabinet.

Her assent was worth it for this brief moment of release. Florence took in a deep yet hurried breath, hoping she would contain herself for however long it would be until she was rescued. Until someone else entered the drawing room.

They could not all be dressing for dinner. How long did it take Miss Quintrell to choose a gown? Or Mrs. Howarth, surely she—

"A Bordeaux," said Marquess of Aylesbury, suddenly far closer than Florence would have imagined possible. "Your favorite, if I remember correctly."

Florence swallowed as she accepted the glass of wine from Marquess of Aylesbury's hands. It was warm. Warmed by his palms.

Goodness. Now that was not the sort of thought young ladies were supposed to—

"You're trembling," said the Marquess of Aylesbury discreetly.

Florence stared at her wine as she considered what to say—how to reply. The trouble was, she was so conscious of the man's movements, it was impossible not to track him from the corner of her eyes as the glass of red liquid swirled in her shaking hands.

He was seated now. John. The Marquess of Aylesbury. Seated in a chair which was opposite her but a safe distance of several feet away. The scraping noise of the chair's feet against the rug grated against Florence's soul.

And now he was closer. So much closer.

"You are still trembling."

"No, I am not," Florence said softly as she lifted her eyes to him.

Which was a mistake. Heat flooded through her as she saw John's expression. It was one she recognized, one which had been fixed upon her before. Several times.

Whenever he thought no one else was looking.

And no one was looking , Florence thought frantically. They were alone here, in the drawing room—something rebellious. Certainly not something her mother would have approved of. Though having said that, she was alone with a marquess . Perhaps her mother would make an exception for that.

"Anyone would think," the Marquess of Aylesbury said lightly, "I make you nervous."

Florence gathered all her wits about her and did the most logical thing she could.

She took a sip of wine.

A small moan of delight escaped her lips. It truly was a wonderful Bordeaux.

"I knew it was the right wine for you," came the Marquess of Aylesbury's voice, amusement tinging every word. "I know you better than you think, Florence. Miss Bailey, I mean."

Florence swallowed a second mouthful of wine, then forced herself to look at the man who was taking such liberties with decorum. Who did he think he was?

Well. He was the Marquess of Aylesbury.

The Marquess of Aylesbury. The second Chance brother. A member of a family which entertained and scandalized the ton in equal measure. A man who was always in the newspapers, always in the gossip columns. Always drinking here or gambling there.

Florence's stomach lurched. Not that she had kept up with his antics.

"You are still trembling."

She knew she was, but she wasn't about to give him the honor of thinking he was having any effect on her. "I... you... that is n-nothing special. E-Everyone makes m-me... makes me nervous."

For a moment, just a moment, Florence could have sworn she saw something strange flicker across John's face, across his eyes. If she'd been pressed to put a word to it, she would have said... sadness. Sadness that he was nothing special. That he was just like everyone else she encountered.

But then he rallied. The charming smile Florence knew so well fell across his expression once more, and the Marquess of Aylesbury leaned back with an elegant air of uncaring refinement.

"Yes, I suppose that is true," he said finally. "At least, it was true when I last knew you. Two years ago."

Florence nodded, relieved she was not called upon to reply to that in words. She took another sip of wine, the heady liquid providing a pleasant distraction from the heady gentleman seated opposite her.

Really, should she ring the bell? Perhaps she had mistaken the time, misheard a sound and assumed it was the dinner gong. She could still retreat—return upstairs, and—

"Two years is a long time, and you have hardly changed a bit," said the Marquess of Aylesbury, his voice velvet.

Florence said nothing, but met his look for just one shimmering moment.

It was a moment of lost control and she regretted it immediately. But in that moment, just before she could regain control of herself, Florence gave the man such a withering look of disdain, she was surprised he did not combust into flames and ruin that perfectly good Chippendale chair.

His sudden inhale told Florence her glare had not gone unnoticed.

Damn.

"We lost touch," he said. "Over the years."

Florence hesitated, but it was ridiculous to await the man to continue on with the conversation single handed. She had been born and raised to be a lady. And ladies conversed.

Wasn't that all they did?

"I am sure the loss has not been great," she said airily. "I am certain you have had plenty of lovely ladies to entertain you."

The Marquess of Aylesbury inclined his head. "I have indeed—dear God."

Florence jumped. His exclamation was so startling, it was a miracle she did not spill wine upon herself. Then she realized she hadn't only because she had drunk so much of the wine now that it was impossible for it to reach the top of the glass.

Ah. She should probably slow down a tad.

"You spoke," said the Marquess of Aylesbury in wonder.

Florence stared at the man. Was he quite well? His eyes were wide, a look of incredulity on his face. "I-I have spoken b-before."

"Not without—I mean, you spoke clearly, without hesitation, without stammer," said the Marquess of Aylesbury, agog. "How did you do that?"

Swallowing hard, Florence looked at her wine.

She did not know.

Well, she did know in truth, but she was hardly about to admit the truth to a man such as him. He would get quite the wrong idea about it, and she had no inclination to listen to the foolish man's guesses.

"These l-ladies," Florence said stubbornly, knowing this line of questioning was going to harm her far more than it would harm him. "You enjoyed them, I s-suppose?"

Her cheeks burned. She had intended to say he had enjoyed their company, but she always became tongue tied when the room's attention was all on her. And the attention of John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, was somehow far brighter than a whole host of people.

His roguish grin did not help. "Oh, I enjoyed them very much."

Pain as Florence had never known seared through her.

Well, what had she expected? That John—that the Marquess of Aylesbury would depart from her company and never speak to another lady again? That she would be the last woman he would ever court?

Yet the sad, aching pain that filled her was most unaccountable. Florence knew it was ridiculous, but she could not stop the pain coming.

Oh, she wanted to stop the pain—

"And yet," the Marquess of Aylesbury continued in a low voice, "none of them... none of them were quite like you."

Florence glanced up, meeting his gaze and for the first time since he had arrived at the Knights', holding it.

What was she to say to such a pronouncement? That he had broken her heart two years ago? That it had been far beyond confusing to have been kissed by him only to then to see him go? That it had been agony to watch him leave? That her heart had never truly been mended since?

That, in short, a part of her thought it never would be whole until he—

Florence rose hastily, placing her almost empty wine glass on a console table to her left. "I have to g-go."

"Go?" John said blankly, mirroring her and rising to his feet. "Where are you going?"

Anywhere but here , she wanted to say. Somewhere you can't reach me. Where I won't have to worry about seeing you again, because seeing you brings back memories that I cannot—that I will not live through again.

Because there is nothing, nothing worse than seeing the man who broke your heart step into a room and announce he was going to seduce all the ladies present. Or whatever it was he had said.

"I-I have a headache," Florence said hastily, no better excuses coming to mind. "And I—"

"There you are! Miss Bailey, you are positively glowing!"

Florence whirled around and saw her host, Mr. Knight, standing in the doorway. "I am n-not—"

"It appears I have inadvertently interrupted a tête-à-tête," said the man with a meaningful look at the marquess. "Oh dear."

It was all she could do not to burst into tears. What would everyone think? There would be talk, and that talk would lead to gossip, and that gossip would lead to—

"When you two are finished, we're about to finish our pre-dinner drinks on the terrace," said Mr. Knight more happily. "As agreed earlier. But don't rush on my account!"

He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Florence turned slowly to John, who had the good grace to look a little sheepish.

"Look, I—"

"You knew everyone else was on the terrace—you knew I was the only one who did not know!" she said. "H-How dare—"

"I did like our tête-à-tête," said John, stepping toward her.

Florence attempted to take a step back, almost fell into the armchair, sprang up and stepped around it. "W-Well like the m-memory, for you'll n-never have one of th-th-those again!"

He was almost right before her now, his hand almost on her wrist, and for a wild moment Florence lost herself in the memory of that kiss. The kiss she thought had been heralding the beginning of the rest of her life. The kiss that had taught her what love was, what desire was, what need was. The kiss which had meant so much to her, and so little to him.

Then she stumbled back and the memory faded and there was only John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, and rake extraordinaire, standing before her.

"Stay away from me," Florence said sinisterly before storming out of the room.