Chapter Seven

July 17, 1812

T he pace, the thrill, the rhythm, the rush—

A broad smile was across Florence's face as she rode in the early morning chill. The scent of dawn was in the air; the pollen from the flowers gently stirring, the slow arrival of sleepy honeybees venturing out, the birdsong heralding the rising sun.

And beneath her, Midnight.

It was always her preference to ride alone. Florence had seen others ride in Hyde Park in pairs or trios, sometimes even larger groups. And they talked. They conversed, the pressure of always having the right thing to say pressing constantly against a person's tongue.

She had tried it, once. Once had been enough.

Ever since, she had ridden alone. Just before dawn, as the world was waking, where no one would see her.

And she could feel alive.

Florence breathed a laugh as her mare, Midnight, shifted from an energetic canter to an all-out gallop. Wind whipped at her hair as it did the mane of her steed, the thrill of the movement stirring through her body with the thud, thud, thud of her pulse.

There was no one else here. No one else in the world. This was the one place, Florence knew, where she could be herself.

It was more difficult in the summer months. In the winter, dawn approached slowly and later in the day, giving Florence the opportunity to stay in bed far longer. In July, however, she had to be up so early there sometimes seemed little point in going to bed.

But still. It was worth it.

Florence expertly slowed her horse to a swift trot as they approached the edge of the Serpentine, looking out curiously at the water as birds chirped and ducks paddled lazily upon the lake.

Freedom.

That was it. That was what she craved, what was missing in her life. The freedom to be herself, to do what she liked, when she liked. To not be tied up in Society's rules, not be forced to attend events she had absolutely no wish to attend, all to prevent offense being given to people she had never met.

Florence leaned back in her saddle and beamed up at the sky that was just beginning to lighten. This was where she could be herself. This was the last place anyone would think to—

There was a man.

The sudden realization, borne of a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of her eye, transformed Florence immediately.

Gone was the smile. Gone was the relaxed look up at the sky, the gentle grip of the reins, the certainty she had at least another hour before anyone would disturb her in Hyde Park.

Florence curled up in herself, making herself smaller as she knew precisely how. Her ungloved hands— what had she been thinking? —gripped the leather of her reins so tightly the edge dug into her wrist.

A man.

After all the freedom she had enjoyed, the solitude and the silence, it was a jolt to the spirit to feel so... exposed.

You shouldn't have come.

Florence pushed aside the thought. She had to take advantage of these mornings while she had them. She was about to be married to John—to the Marquess of Aylesbury. He was hardly likely to encourage dawn rides alone, unchaperoned and in public.

That thought was just as disconcerting as the previous one. It was mortifying to think that to gain other freedoms, she would be forced to give up the only one that had kept her sane the last few years. But then, it was a price she'd already decided she was willing to pay.

Except that now, there was a man. He was standing under a large sycamore tree, the green leaves dappled over him as the sun continued to slowly rise.

And he was looking at her. Florence could not see much else about him, not from this distance, but it was clear he was looking in her direction. What else was there over here?

Attempting to surreptitiously look around herself, just in case there was something else worth catching the eye, Florence was disappointed to discover that she was, perhaps, the only thing of real interest.

Save for the Serpentine. Mayhaps he was interested in... in water birds?

Florence discounted the thought with an irritated snort. If that were so, why would he be standing over there? Surely he would be here, examining the ducks and the geese and... and the other birds.

Her gaze darted about her, looking for an escape. There was only one gate open this early in the morning, and it was right by where the man was standing. The Lancaster Gate.

She could remain in Hyde Park until another was opened, of course. Florence bit her lip, a quivering making it most difficult to take a calming breath. But if she stayed that long, then others would arrive at the Park. She would no longer be alone.

She would be seen. In public. Without gloves, without bonnet, hair loose...

Florence swallowed as Midnight continued to trot forward—the Lancaster Gate was really her only option. The man, whoever he was, was starting to come into greater clarity.

Dark hair, a tall build, broad shoulders, and—

And it was John.

Warmth seared across Florence's face, trickling down her neck and under her gown.

Well, surely that was for the best , she tried to tell herself, heart pattering against her ribcage as she slowly approached him. If it had just been some... some man, she would have had to make polite conversation. May even have been recognized.

The last thing she needed was a scandal just before her impending marriage.

As it was, it was John. The Marquess of Aylesbury. He would understand. He wouldn't try to engage her in—

"Hallo there!" John said cheerfully, waving a hand as he leaned against the sycamore trunk. "Early morning ride?"

The answer felt so obvious, Florence did not consider answering it. What she wanted to say was, "What are you doing here?" or "It's outrageous that you and I should meet here, unchaperoned!" or even "I've missed you."

But she couldn't say anything like that. Certainly not the last one.

This was a marriage of convenience , Florence reminded herself sternly. He doesn't care for you. And you don't care for him.

Any more than you should.

Instead, she said, "I-I didn't realize w-we had an app-pointment."

John's grin broadened. "What, at this time? Rather scandalous appointment if we did, don't you think?"

Florence's cheeks burned at the mere suggestion of impropriety. "I-I wouldn't—"

"That's a shame, because I do love an early morning appointment," said John without permitting her leave to finish her own sentence. "You look... well."

As though it were his fingers brushing over her and not his gaze, John examined her closely.

Heat poured through Florence but there did not appear to be anything she could do about it. Besides, what could she say? Stop looking at me? It was hardly as simple as that. A man could look at his wife, she knew, and one day John would be her husband. There was no law against looking.

But somehow John didn't just look with his eyes. He looked... he looked with his whole body. As though he wanted to touch her , Florence thought, swallowing hard. As though he was picturing what it would be like to touch her. Longing to be close to her. As though at any moment, he would step close to her and—

"I'm heading home for bed," said John, gazing up at her. "It's been a long night."

Florence's jaw dropped. "B-Bed?"

His mischievous grin did nothing to soothe her embarrassment, but there was nothing she could do about that, either.

She had just said that word "bed" to the Marquess of Aylesbury! In public!

Well. In public, but with no witnesses. Thank the Lord.

"I suppose you come out here so you can be alone," said John, in a softer voice than before.

This, at least, was safe ground upon which she could stand. It was a fact, there was nothing shameful or scandalous about it, and it was an innocuous topic of conversation.

Florence knew that. She also knew she could not speak a single word.

It was most inconvenient.

"I know you, Florence," John said, his voice lower still. "Better than you would think. Better than you know yourself, I suppose."

Now, she could not permit that. "Y-You shouldn't c-call me that."

If Florence had not been seated upon Midnight, she would have been in very great danger of wanting to kiss John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury. As it was, his fiery glance did nothing but melt her core, make her thighs ache, and recall the kiss against the carriage that led to—

"What?"

"F-Florence," she said, forcing the word out. "It is t-too—"

"Intimate?" John said, a quizzical look across his brow. "But we are to be married, Florence. You do not think we have reached that level of intimacy yet?"

Florence swallowed.

Because he was right, damn him. From the little she had ascertained from those she knew who had become engaged—and there were very few friends in that quarter—being on first name terms was a natural progression of the... the expected tenderness.

And yet being on such terms with the Marquess of Aylesbury . . . with John . . .

Could she even say his name, albeit in private, and not melt with shame?

And then something he had said a few moments ago returned to her mind and made Florence's eyes narrow. "Y-You've been up all n-night?"

John shrugged, the picture of the elegant yet rakish gentleman. Now she came to look a mite closer, she could see the signs. The top button of his waistcoat was unbuttoned and his cravat was ruffled. His hair was mussed, as though he had run his hands through it several times, and there was tiredness as well as sparkle in his eyes.

Up all night?

"May I offer you assistance in dismounting, Miss Bailey?" John said, stepping forward with a hand extended.

Florence hesitated.

She did not need help to get down. She was an excellent horsewoman, as perhaps she should have told Mr. Knight when he had inquired about it. For years she had been perfectly able to both mount and dismount without the aid of even a mounting block. That wasn't the true cause of her hesitation.

No, it was the very idea of dismounting in John's presence. The Marquess of Aylesbury's presence.

Up here, on Midnight, Florence was safe. Distant. Far away. Able to depart at a moment's notice without any fear of being caught up. Giving up that safety, that distance...

He was asking a great deal. Did he not know?

John's hand lowered slightly but did not return to his side. "I'm not going to hurt you, Florence."

Florence's stomach lurched. You did last time , she wanted to say, knowing her tongue would fail her. You hurt me. You kissed me then disappeared—no one else knew why you left Lady Romeril's house party after three long weeks when you seemed so happy. I had thought you were happy.

"Florence?"

There was something about the way he spoke her name. It caused a shiver to rush down her spine as she stared into his blue eyes.

And despite all her decisiveness that she would most definitely remain upon the horse—right here, right where she was safe—Florence found herself offering out a hand.

Which was ridiculous. She should have just dismounted herself, preferably on the opposite side of the horse to where John was standing.

That way, he would not have suddenly pushed her against the horse the moment her feet touched the ground. Then Florence would not have been pinned between Midnight, who stood still quite happily, and the crush of John's chest.

"John!"

"Oh, you'll say my name now," said John with a wicked grin. "Aren't you going to ask me?"

Strange ideas were flooding Florence's mind, so swiftly it was difficult to grasp onto one.

What on earth did the man think he was doing? Pinning her like this, against her own mare—there should be a law against it!

And despite all that, Florence's body was betraying her. For though her mind knew it was quite ridiculous for a man, any man, let alone the Marquess of Aylesbury, to be accosting a woman like this, and in public too...

It was nice. More than nice. Pleasant, to feel the strength of his torso against hers, to know herself hemmed in by his presence. To breathe him in. To feel the welcome of his arms around her, to be close to that throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

Was... was it possible , Florence thought wildly, that John was just as affected by their closeness as she was?

Not that she was affected. Not at all. That would be ridiculous, she told herself tightly as her pulse hummed in her ears and she tried to think. Think of something, anything to say—

"A-Ask you?" Florence whispered, eyes fixed on his. "A-Ask you wh—"

"What I've been doing all night, of course," said John with a chuckle. "If I have been with a woman. It would be within your right to know. Ask me, Florence."

And the last three words were whispered like a prayer, like a benediction, as though he were begging her.

Her breath caught in her lungs. How could she ask him such a thing? How could anyone even think it, let alone ask the question? This was all too much—and yet John had taken a small step back, allowing her to escape him if she chose.

Florence stared, something twisting within her that she did not like.

Desire.

She could not go around desiring her own betrothed! Had one heartbreak not been enough to teach her?

With a great effort, far more than she had thought herself capable of making, Florence stepped to the side and escaped the heady presence of John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury.

She had thought it would bring relief. Florence had been sure, once she was a good five or so feet away from him, that she would breathe more freely, that the sense of panic would dissipate.

And yet it did not. Her lungs were still tight, her pulse still frantic, and it crossed her mind in a flash that perhaps it had not been panic she had been experiencing at all.

Perhaps it had been . . . something else.

"You don't ask," said John flatly.

Was that disappointment?

Florence did not interrogate the thought. She did not have time—her mind was working at half speed, as it always did whenever she was in John's presence. Did he know? Did he have any idea, the effect he had on people? On ladies? On her?

"I-I d-don't..." Florence swallowed, hating anew that her voice betrayed her. She looked at her hands, the marks of the leather reins still upon them. Then she looked back up at the man she knew she loved, even though she hated that she did. "I do not like the idea of you with someone else."

The words echoed out into the early dawn.

Unaccountably, John's balance was suddenly interrupted, his feet tangling a bit as he attempted to find his balance and accidentally knocked into Midnight who nickered irritably. "I... yes well, I cannot help but be pleased to see again that I am the only person you speak to without stammering. You must... there must be something between us. Something unique."

Florence swallowed. Now he had pointed that out ...she could speak clearly and plainly to herself, in solitude, to be sure. But with another? That was indeed rare.

"Not entirely unique." Pulling herself together, she did her best to hold her head up high. "I-I have spoken to y-you before—"

"But not to others," said John quietly, stepping toward her. "Am I correct?"

Florence hastily took a step back. The motion came from instinct, a certain knowledge that getting too close to John was a recipe for losing her voice all over again.

Most unaccountably he kept stepping forward, and Florence was forced into a half retreat, half run. When her back hit the trunk of the sycamore tree, she gasped—partly at the shock of the jolt, and partly at the realization that once again, she had nowhere to run.

Before she could think to step around it, John had reached her. He placed his hands on the trunk, either side of her waist, and looked deep into her eyes. "I am special to you."

Florence raised her hands—why, she was not sure. To ward him off? To push him away?

The trouble was, the moment her palms splayed against him, John's throat cleared loudly.

Florence blinked. Was she—she couldn't be having any impact on John, could she?

He was a rake. A scoundrel. She had once overheard a viscount whose name she had forgotten mutter to a footman that John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, was not to be permitted anywhere near a gambling table unless he proved he had coin on his person. He was a rascal. A brute, apparently, of the highest order.

And he was breathless . . . because of her?

"I wondered if your shyness alone was what prevented you from speaking," John was saying in a low, intimate voice. "I wondered whether over time, you may be able to... speak to me."

The comment was heady, and not one Florence could even consider replying to. How could she? There was nothing she could say.

This had never happened before.

"Y-You..." Florence swallowed, willed herself to stay calm. Calm while pinned against a tree in Hyde Park by a man who made her want to take all her clothes off. Easy. "You don't have to explain your whereabouts t-to... to me."

"Even as my wife?" John said with a twisted smile.

It would be much easier, Florence could not help but think, if they could have this conversation while they were both even more fully clothed. Gloves, hats. Perhaps even overcoats. And ten feet apart.

As it was . . .

As she tried to take in a deep breath, her breasts pushed against John's chest and he groaned.

He groaned?

No, she must have imagined that , Florence thought hastily. "Ours is a marriage of convenience, J-John."

Perhaps she should not have attempted to say his name—but there, again, a hitch of breath in his throat.

And a wicked idea struck Florence that she could, if she wished, disorient him just as much as he was affecting her. It was a strange thought. One she liked.

To test this wild idea she shifted, twisting her hips from side to side as though attempting to get away.

The movement had the desired effect—and more. John stiffened, his whole face suddenly flushed, and there was something else, too. Something pressing most oddly against her hip.

Florence looked down, and saw—

She looked up again, her cheeks burning, as she met his gaze.

Goodness.

"A marriage of convenience," she said aloud steadfastly, as though reminding them both that this attraction, this whatever it was—it was nothing. "I-I get aw-way from m-my m-mother, a-a-and you g-gain respectab-bility."

John's grin was dry. "Is my name truly that disgraced?"

"N-Not the n-name of Ch-Ch-Ch—"

"But the name of Aylesbury," he said.

Florence nodded, rather than attempt to speak again. It was, after all, why she had suggested the marriage of convenience to him.

Oh, it was true that she had made the mistake of entirely falling in love with him two years ago, and that was certainly part of the decision. She could not deny that, not even to herself. But Florence had kept track of John in the newspapers. Seen the scandals, one after another. Heard whispers about how the oldest Chance brother, the Duke of Cothrom, was attempting to keep his brothers in line. Knew that having a wife would give John—give the Marquess of Aylesbury a veneer of respectability which could not be gained any other way.

That had to be it—his reason for accepting their deal. It wasn't as though there could be any other reason. The Chances were famed for their wealth, and of the two of them, he was the one with the title.

"J-John?" Florence whispered.

His focus sharpened. "Florence."

"Are . . . are . . . are . . ." Florence forced her tongue into submission. "Are you going to l-let me free?"

It could not be more obvious that John had been hoping to keep her pinned up against the tree, but with her question now out in the open...

John shook his head ruefully as he stepped away from the tree, releasing her. "You know, I would much rather have kept you there."

"I bet you would." The words had escaped Florence's lips before she could stop them. They were the sort of thought she had frequently, but never permitted herself to say.

Her cheeks burned as she glanced over at John. His mouth was open.

Turning away before he could ask her to repeat herself—or God forbid, laugh—Florence grabbed the reins of Midnight.

"May I walk you home?"

She turned. There was an expression she had never seen on John's face before in all the time she had known him. It was disconcerting, to tell the truth.

It was eagerness.

"Wh-What if we're seen?"

John's grin broadened. "Gosh, I don't know. I'll have to marry you, I suppose."

And Florence laughed, the tension that had built in her body melting away as his chuckles joined hers.

"It's nice to see you smile," he said, still chuckling as they started to walk toward Lancaster Gate. "I suppose you haven't had much to smile about."

Because of your mother.

The unspoken words were not necessary. Florence knew precisely what he meant, and nodded as she said, "L-Losing my f-father... it was a terrible time."

"I lost my father young, I know that pain," John said quietly, seriousness in his voice as they passed through the gate.

Florence looked over, surprised. She should have known, of course. His older brother could not be the Duke of Cothrom without the loss of their father, yet it had never occurred to her.

"You never said," she murmured as they started down the empty street. "When we first met."

"I didn't," said John. "I think... I think I did not tell you a great deal about me when we first met. I wasn't... well, I wasn't particularly interested in matrimony then."

It was an understatement, but it was true. And he had been the one to say it, which she had not anticipated.

She glanced over again, and John met her eyes steadily, with no shame.

"But I am interested now," he said earnestly. "I'm interested in you. A... a second chance, call it. To get to know you."

Heat burned Florence's cheeks. "I see."

"I hope you do," John said. "I'm just sorry that you had to be the one to suggest a marriage of convenience. But I'm glad now we have our second chance."