Chapter Five

July 10, 1812

W hen Florence opened her eyes, it was to breathe in a sigh of relief.

This was it. She had done it. The last day of the house party.

In just a few short hours she would be departing the home of the Knights and returning home. Her mother would have sent the carriage, as was proper, and the moment she stepped inside it, Florence could finally do what she had been unable to do since the moment she had arrived: relax .

No one to talk to, no one to impress, no one to be embarrassed before. There would only be herself and her lady's maid, Abigail, who had been with her long enough to know that Florence would have no interest in conversation during the roughly three hours the journey home would require.

Florence sat up in bed. She had survived. And that would mean saying goodbye to...

She swallowed hard, forcing down all foolish thoughts about a certain gentleman who had made her time here even more difficult.

John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury.

The Marquess of Aylesbury had gone out of his way to—to look at her, and smile at her, and do all manner of vexing things. The man had been purposely irritating, and he knew it. And she knew it. And he knew she knew it.

Florence considered the tangle of that particular thought as Abigail dressed her for the final part of the house party—breakfast—but she knew what she meant.

She should be glad she would be rid of him. She was glad. She was most certainly not upset that she would shortly no longer be able to look over at him and remember what had been. Consider what could have been.

It was therefore most infuriating that the Marquess of Aylesbury was not downstairs for breakfast, robbing Florence of her last chance to show him and the world how infrequently she looked at him.

The toast was dry and the marmalade sour. Or perhaps that was just her dour mood.

When Florence returned upstairs to the guest bedchamber which had been her home the last week or so, it was to discover Abigail had already finished most of the packing.

"There y'are, miss," said her maid cheerfully. "I left you out your favorite scent. I thought you may wish to freshen up before the journey."

Florence blinked. "J-Journey?"

It would be several hours, surely, until the house party broke up. Many of the guests were vocally disappointed to be departing, and she had hoped—

She pushed aside the ridiculous thought.

No, she had not hoped to see the Marquess of Aylesbury again , Florence told herself sternly. She had most definitely not wished to have another conversation with him. Another private conversation. A conversation that might lead to...

"Miss?"

"I-I think there is a l-little time before d-departing," Florence said hastily, though she stepped over to the little toilette table where the scent had been left. "It is only n-nine, I d-do not think—"

"Ah, but you see, I knew how's as you would like to be away early, like," said her maid with a conspiratorial air. "So's I said to young Roberts, when he left us here, I said come nice and early and we can be away straight after breakfast. And he asked if that was your wish, and I said it were, and so the carriage arrived ten minutes ago. We'll be gone in a dash!"

She beamed at her mistress and Florence forced herself to smile.

It was kindly done. In any other scenario, she would have taken a few shillings from the meager pin money her mother permitted her and given it to Abigail as a demonstration of her gratitude.

Because in any other circumstances, it was precisely what she would have wanted. The excuse to leave early because the carriage was here, a swift escape from people and conversations and expectations...

Abigail was not to know that for the first time in her life, Florence did not wish to go.

And that was why her idea had burned in her mind when the Marquess of Aylesbury had half walked, half run away from her last night, a new thought she'd not been entirely prepared for.

It was a foolish idea, certainly. The sort of thing one heard about, but it never actually happened. Florence hardly knew why the thought had crossed her mind in the first place, it was so ridiculous.

But it had. And Florence had spent half the night awake, thinking about it.

Her original plan had been to return home once the Knights' house party was over and demand her mother cease sending her to such ridiculous places in her attempt to find a husband. She had no desire to dance, no need to play cards, and would rather hole herself up in a dungeon than sit through another excruciating afternoon tea.

That had been what she was going to say.

"I knew you'd be pleased," said her maid with a grin as she heaved up her mistress's trunk. "I'll just take this and wait downstairs in the kitchens. The stableboy will run and let me know when you're ready in the carriage."

Florence nodded instead of trusting her voice. Her maid carried the trunk with great effort out of the room, then kicked the door closed behind her, just as Florence's mother had attempted to teach her not to do.

She examined herself in the looking glass.

Her idea was ridiculous. And if it didn't work, Florence was likely to melt into a puddle of shame never to be forgotten. She would never be able to go out into Society again, though in truth that was more a reward than a punishment.

Florence tucked a curl of flaming red hair behind her ear. But if it worked...

No. She couldn't. It was just a passing fancy.

After dabbing the scent—jasmine and roses, her favorite—behind her ears, she placed the little bottle into her reticule and swept a quick look around the guest bedchamber.

She had not left anything here. Not even her heart.

Preparing herself for an awkward conversation with her hosts, Florence left the room and started down the staircase. She was prevented from having to find them, however, by the sight of both Mr. and Mrs. Knight near the front door, having a conversation with—

"Ah, there she is," said John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, airily. "I thought it was her carriage outside, I recognized the... you are leaving early, then."

If Florence had been a different woman, she would have glared at the man. Perhaps if she had been completely different, she would have shot back a quip, a retort, something to make them all laugh and take the focus off her and place it squarely on the man who was being so annoying.

As it was . . .

"I-I... I d-d-did not know m-my mother would..." Florence swallowed, hating how her voice simply crumbled into nothing whenever her nerves overcame her. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous! "I-I h-have no wish to off-f-fend—"

"No offense is given, not at all," Mrs. Knight said swiftly, rescuing Florence from her own errant tongue. "Naturally your mother wishes you to be home quickly. She must have missed you!"

Florence considered attempting to say something cutting at her mother's expense. That the woman probably missed the opportunity to berate her daughter, complain about her complete lack of suitors, and wonder audibly if she would have to bear the burden of a spinster daughter for the rest of her life.

But she didn't.

She smiled weakly. "I-I th-thank you for... for your understanding."

And still the Marquess of Aylesbury hovered beside her. It was most unaccountable. Here she was, attempting to thank Mr. and Mrs. Knight for their hospitality—a sentiment expressed poorly, thanks to her anxious stuttering—and he remained there.

Looking at her.

Florence swallowed as she completed her thanks. "—v-very kind, I th-thank you."

And she meant it. Though she had dreaded this house party, Mr. and Mrs. Knight had proven themselves to be exemplary hosts. Most importantly, they had never forced her to join a card game, or dance about playing charades, or do anything to draw greater attention onto herself.

It was a rarity, and she wished them to know just how grateful she was.

If only she could wrangle her tongue.

"It was our pleasure to have you, my dear," said Mrs. Knight with a kindly look.

"Oh yes, you must come back," Mr. Knight said eagerly. "We're thinking of having a hunting party in the autumn! I don't know if you hunt, Miss Bailey—"

"Miss Bailey does not hunt, but she rides superbly," came a quiet voice.

"Oh, capital!" said Mr. Knight enthusiastically. "I should have guessed that, the way you put down—ah, I mean, explained to Mr. Lister about bloodlines. I thought at the time..."

Precisely what the man had thought at the time, Florence did not know. She had rather lost the thread of what he was saying as she was too busy staring at the man beside her to pay enough attention.

The Marquess of Aylesbury was smiling. No, not smiling. There was no curve on his lips, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told her precisely what he was thinking.

They had cantered together. The rest of the pack had been left behind and Florence had laughed joyfully, not a tremor in her voice, as John had attempted to keep up with her.

"Slow down!" he had cried.

Florence had barely heard him, the rush of the wind and the euphoria of riding almost overcoming her.

And yet she had slowed. Riding had always been a passion, an escape—but riding with John... his laughter beside her, his admiration, the way he had attempted to grow close whenever he helped her dismount...

As if she needed help dismounting.

Then the moment was broken.

"Well, bring your own horse when you come in the autumn," Mr. Knight said, and Florence turned from the Marquess of Aylesbury hastily to nod. "Excellent. Wonderful! And you, my lord, you must—"

"Anywhere Miss Bailey is, I will be certain to be," said the Marquess of Aylesbury. "Her ability to ride anything is second to none."

Boiling heat splashed across Florence's face. Did he have any idea what that sounded like—how could he even think of—

But apparently their hosts had noticed nothing. "How impressive," said Mrs. Knight cordially. "You have hidden depths, my dear! I look forward to getting to know you better."

And a wave of guilt washed over Florence. They really weren't so bad, Mr. and Mrs. Knight. They had been truly good hosts, and perhaps Mrs. Knight, who was perhaps only a few years older than herself, could have been a friend.

She would have plenty of time to regret her behavior at this house party in the carriage, Florence told herself. And even more time when she arrived home and her mother grilled her about the number of gentlemen, and how many of them Florence had flirted with.

The very idea!

"G-Goodbye," Florence muttered, curtsying low and turning to the front door, which was immediately opened by a footman.

She stepped forward. And then could not step forward farther.

There was a pressure on her arm.

Florence looked at it to see a hand placed upon it, preventing her from moving. A hand that was strong, yet gentle. A hand she recognized.

She swallowed, and looked up into the serious expression of the Marquess of Aylesbury.

"I-I can find my own w-way to my carriage," she managed, heat searing as she met his blue gaze.

"I am sure you can," he said cheerfully. "But I wouldn't dream of you being forced to find your own way there. The very idea!"

There was nothing she could do. No matter what Florence's thoughts were on the matter, it was clear the brute— perhaps that was too strong a word —was not going to let go of her arm until she reached her carriage.

Fine , Florence thought darkly. He could walk her to her carriage. Then she would be in the carriage and away from this very confusing man. Free to weep over the missed opportunity, once again. Unless...

She again pushed aside the plan she had concocted last night then dismissed in the cold light of day. Absolutely not. She was no harlot, acting in such a bold and outrageous manner. Certainly not!

All she was going to do was walk with the Marquess of Aylesbury. Unwillingly.

"F-Fine," she managed to say aloud.

The Marquess of Aylesbury's face split into a grin. "Excellent."

Florence had been certain the man had merely intended to accompany her, to walk beside her across the gravel drive with an appropriate amount of space between them, then come to a halt when they reached her carriage.

But apparently John Chance had a different idea.

As Florence came to the portico steps, John attempted to lift her hand and place it on his arm.

The sudden intimacy was overwhelming. That the man would assume they would walk arm in arm—like a couple betrothed, like two people who shared a connection deeper than mere words...

He was out of his mind!

Worst of all, Florence could not help but be suddenly intoxicated by his presence. The heat of the day was only just beginning to make itself felt, but her mind had been instantly overcome by the heat of John Chance.

His touch, his scent, the very masculine presence that was and only could be John. Sandalwood and cedar, the warmth of his fingers, the ease with which he reached for her own—

It was too much.

Florence stumbled down the steps, mind reeling from the sudden intrusion of the Marquess of Aylesbury's presence, and she was falling, falling, the ground whooshing forward at a terrible pace and she would be injured, the marble steps were approaching so rapidly she could not—

A strong arm swept her to the left, pulling her into the solid chest of a man who chuckled.

"See," the Marquess of Aylesbury murmured so only she could hear. "You need me."

Florence knew she should push him away. Should use the splayed hand against his linen shirt above his waistcoat as leverage, and force the man to release her.

Which was why she did so—after a few heart-stopping moments, during which she felt his pulse race, race to match the throbbing pulse aching through her own body.

"I-I don't n-need your—"

"Careful, Miss Bailey!" called Mrs. Knight from the doorway. "They can be awfully slippy, those steps!"

Florence carefully ignored the smirk on the Marquess of Aylesbury's lips and stepped onto the gravel. At least here she was unlikely to fall.

Because it had been the step's fault, obviously, that she had stumbled. Not the overpowering presence of a certain gentleman, who she most certainly was not in love with, not at all, and was not heartbroken about in the slightest. Most definitely not. Not at all.

"You need me."

Shaking her head as though that could remove the echo of those words, Florence looked up to see her carriage. There, only about twenty feet away. She would be there in a moment.

And every moment she would be accompanied by the Marquess of Aylesbury.

If only there were something there. Something mutual.

Florence had allowed herself to hope, two years ago, and she had been proven to be most foolish in doing so. She was hardly about to make the same mistake again.

Was she?

This time she was not startled, nor did she attempt to escape him when the Marquess of Aylesbury placed her hand on his arm. Perhaps it was better not to resist the warmth of his arm. Or the sense of peace that flowed through her as they walked in step together—slowly, far more slowly than Florence would have intended. Perhaps instead she should resist the painful thought that this could be the last time she was ever close to the man who—

"H-Here we are," Florence said aloud—mostly to force away the hurried thoughts swirling through her mind.

It was best to forget him. Forget what could have been. Forget what she had hoped.

Her driver, Roberts, must have gone to the kitchens to find Abigail, for there was no servant by the carriage to open the door and help her in.

And she was not , Florence told herself firmly, going to permit the Marquess of Aylesbury to—

"John!" she gasped, instinctively using the far more intimate first name in the shock of what he had just done.

Because what he had done was outrageous. Instead of opening the carriage door and helping her inside—which would already have been a little reckless, the two of them without gloves—John had tightened his grip on her hand and pulled her around the carriage.

Out of sight of anyone who may be looking out from the house.

Florence's pulse quickened as she tugged her hand away from the miscreant. "Wh-What do you th-think you're—John!"

She had not intended to say his name again, but for the second time, she had not been able to help it. What else was a lady supposed to do when a gentleman suddenly pushes her up against a carriage, his face somehow serious and eager at the same time?

The solid carriage behind her and the breadth of John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, before her, Florence's pulse skipped a beat as she looked up at him.

What on earth was the man playing at?

"I miss you, Florence," John said in a low voice.

Florence's gasp hitched in her throat. This wasn't happening. This could not happen! "Y-You can't m-miss me—"

"Why not?" he asked insistently, his voice remaining hushed. "You are beautiful, Florence. And kind. And far too tempting for a man like me to resist."

The aching longing Florence associated with the impetuous marquess was flooding back into her body, and just for a moment, she considered giving into all those desires, all those feelings, and giving herself to him.

Just one kiss , a part of her moaned. Just one.

The rest of her, the far more sensible part of her, rebelled at the mere thought. The Marquess of Aylesbury was a rogue, and a rake, and a brute, and a scoundrel!

And besides . . .

Besides, she had been down this path before. Florence sagged against the carriage, unable to bear her own weight as the Marquess of Aylesbury stared at her with a hungry expression. She knew where this path ended. Florence wasn't going to waste any more tears on this man again.

Probably.

"Florence," said the Marquess of Aylesbury with a teasing air.

Florence wetted her lips before she spoke—an instinct which had never had any dire consequences before.

The man groaned, placing his hands either side of her head as he leaned toward her. "I very much want to kiss you, Florence."

Her panting breaths were short and she knew two things most clearly, despite the whirling of her mind.

Firstly, that she absolutely was not going to let this man kiss her. The very idea!

And secondly, that if she did, she would not be able to regret it.

"Florence," the Marquess of Aylesbury whispered, lowering his head so his forehead touched hers. "Talk to me, Florence."

Florence swallowed hard, not sure how she was still standing, and tried to speak. It was impossible. Her breathing was shallow, her lungs straining for air, and her throat was so dry it was a wonder she could swallow at all.

This was not happening! Where was Roberts? Where was Abigail?

Was it possible she was going to have to escape the Marquess of Aylesbury herself?

"I still want to kiss you, Florence," he whispered.

His breath was warm against her cheek and Florence forced down the sudden urge to lift her lips to meet his own.

"Y-You wouldn't," she managed.

It was the wrong thing to say.

Or the right thing. Florence wasn't sure. All she knew was that as the two words were spoken, the Marquess of Aylesbury groaned and captured her lips in a fiery, desperate kiss.

It was most unlike the kiss they had shared before. That had been filled with desire, of restraint which had been borne too long. It had been a kiss stolen in the kitchen gardens, a kiss Florence had not expected and could never have prepared for.

This was different. This kiss was filled with aching need and lust, a physical ache Florence could not believe was being sated by such a man.

But sate it he did. The Marquess of Aylesbury knew precisely what he was doing, precisely, it seemed, what she liked. Florence moaned, parting her lips beneath his under the aggressive need he poured down upon her. His tongue wetted her lips, and when hers darted out to meet his, it was the Marquess of Aylesbury and not herself who groaned.

Somehow, and Florence was not sure how, she had managed to tangle her fingers in his hair and was doing something most irregular: pulling him closer.

With the bulk of the carriage behind her and the strong chest of the Marquess of Aylesbury against her, Florence could do nothing but succumb to the aching pleasure that flowed through her body as he worshipped her mouth.

And then it was over.

Florence blinked in sudden dazzle of sunlight as she opened her eyes.

The Marquess of Aylesbury was smiling at her ruefully. "I would," he growled.

She nodded hazily, exhaling slowly before she spoke the words she knew she had to say. "Well. I think we should get married."