Chapter Nine
July 23, 1812
"I can't believe it!" squealed the woman excitedly. "You're marrying a marquess!"
Florence tried to smile as she poured the tea, thankful her elevenses companion had more than enough conversation for the both of them. "Y-Yes."
It had been her mother's idea to have a friend over for elevenses.
"You never see anyone, Florence," Mrs. Bailey had complained over breakfast the previous morning. "You are dull. Dull! But that does not mean you should not entertain. Entertain, girl! That's what my mother would have said to me."
And so Florence had.
At least, she had sent out an invitation to the most pleasant woman in her acquaintance. Whether or not she was managing to entertain her guest was quite another matter.
"And that means that you'll be a marchioness," said Miss Quintrell, carefully selecting a pastry from the array on the plate before them. "A marchioness! Can you believe it?"
And Florence discovered, to her general surprise, that she could not.
With three days to recover from the stir John had caused at Lady Romeril's ball, she had started to think a little more about the future, but that had been practicalities. Wedding decisions like invitation lists and flower choices and whether or not it was feasible for her mother not to attend.
Not that Florence would ever dream of saying such a wish aloud.
The idea she would have a title, and one so grand as marchioness, had rather passed her by.
"G-Goodness," Florence said before taking a sip of tea.
Miss Quintrell squealed. "Oh, how exciting!"
Florence nodded faintly as her new friend chattered on about how wonderful the whole thing was, and how half the ton was envious as sin, and the other half were wondering how on earth she'd done it. Florence wondered herself.
"May I have another cake?" asked Miss Quintrell interrupting her own monologue about how wonderful it must be to fall in love with a marquess after just five days together at a house party.
Florence blinked. "Of . . . of c-course."
Miss Quintrell reached out and helped herself. "And the man is so charming! Honestly, I have rarely met a man so easy to converse with. Of course you know that..."
Nodding as she allowed her friend to continue, Florence attempted to push aside the memory of what her mother had said when Miss Quintrell had arrived just an hour ago.
"Her?" muttered Mrs. Bailey. "You're about to have a title, you ninny. Shouldn't you be aiming for a better class of associates now?"
"M-Miss Quintrell is m-my friend," Florence had said, shocked at the boldness of her answer, that she had answered back at all.
And her mother had frowned and said, "When you and I and that marquess of yours live together, I hope you shall respect me better!"
Which had left another painful conversation for another day.
"—tell me," said Miss Quintrell in a matter of fact way. "How does he kiss?"
Florence's teacup wobbled. "I-I beg your—"
"The Marquess of Aylesbury, how does he kiss?" repeated Miss Quintrell, without a hint of shame about the question.
It was certainly not the sort of conversation Florence had thought they'd be having! Wasn't it rather shocking, asking such a personal detail?
Miss Quintrell's grin was broad. "Oh, come on—you wouldn't have agreed to marry him if he hadn't already kissed you. Was it any good?"
Florence swallowed her mouthful of tea and wished to goodness she had helped herself to a cake too. Then she could have pretended to choke on it.
Besides, it wasn't as though she could tell her companion the truth. If the ton discovered it was Miss Bailey, not the Marquess of Aylesbury, who had suggested the marriage, they would never hear the end of it.
"How was his kiss?" insisted Miss Quintrell.
Florence considered telling the truth. Just for a moment.
But she was hardly going to speak about something so personal with Miss Quintrell. Even if she was a pleasant conversational partner.
"It... it was f-fine," she managed, taking a sip of tea as though she could hide behind the teacup.
"Fine? Oh dear," said a new voice, tinged with mirth. "I believe more practice is needed if you can describe my efforts as merely fine ."
Fortunately, Florence did not drop her teacup. But it was a close-run thing.
"John!" she gasped.
John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, stepped across the threshold into the parlor and grinned at both her and her guest. "Florence."
Florence flushed.
It was all very well for him to call her by her first name in private, when they were alone—which was fast becoming her favorite time of the day. If a day went by without it, she felt rather... diminished.
But saying it before someone else—someone who wasn't even family! It was outrageous!
The trouble was, it was almost impossible grow angry with a man like John. Not just because of his roguish charm, Florence thought wistfully. Nor because of his good looks, which were far superior to those of any other man she had ever met.
No, it was because she liked him.
That was the problem. Ladies should not like the men they have chosen to be their escape route from awful mothers and gossiping Society.
Miss Quintrell was giggling. "Oh, goodness, my lord!"
"Florence's lord, actually," John said with a wink. "But don't worry, I'll allow it."
"My lord!"
Florence's flush burned her cheeks. How did they do it? These ladies entered Society with no more experience of life than she had, and yet they could jest and quip and flirt to their heart's content without even a hint of embarrassment.
How did the words come so easily to them? How could they speak so comfortably, making it look to the world as though they did not care a fig what words came out of their mouths?
"Just fine," said John, shaking his head with a tut. "I am heartbroken."
"I-I d-d-didn't m-mean," Florence said, desperately trying to get her words in order as the shame of being overheard saying such a thing rushed through her.
Of course, the one time that she attempted to downplay her attraction to the man, he overheard her!
"I would not worry about it," John said with a look of such potent desire, Florence was surprised she hadn't melted into the sofa. "I'm willing to be taught."
Miss Quintrell's giggles became a gasp and Florence looked furiously at the man who was doing an incredibly good job at mortifying her. Did he not have any compassion for her?
"Well, I can see that the two of you have a great deal to... ah... catch up on!" said Miss Quintrell, still giggling as she rose. "I am due home for luncheon anyway. Thank you for your tea and conversation, Miss Bailey. May I take your carriage home?"
It was an excellent suggestion. Not just Miss Quintrell taking the carriage, but leaving altogether. Florence had had her fill of people for the day.
She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice. There was no point in attempting to speak. There was nothing she could try to say that anyone in the room was going to listen to.
For a moment, as John and Miss Quintrell exchanged a friendly goodbye, Florence wished that he would leave too. Leave, leave her in peace. Leave her to cringe over the things she had said, to worry over every syllable she had managed to utter. Leave her alone. As she so often was.
As she usually craved.
But though being left in solitude would typically have been her greatest desire, Florence found herself unexpectedly pleased John would be remaining with her. Just the two of them. Alone, as it were, together.
Still. The whole experience would have been even more gratifying if she hadn't said such a foolish thing.
"How was his kiss?"
"It . . . it was f-fine."
The door snapped closed behind Miss Quintrell and Florence gave a sigh of relief.
Well. That goodness that was over and done—
"Right, Florence, shall we begin?" said John briskly.
Florence's eyes widened. What on earth did he mean? "I-I don't know wh-what you—"
"Our kissing practice," John said blithely, though there was a hint of mirth in his features he evidently could not quell. "I am disheartened in the extreme to discover my kissing has not delivered, and—"
"John!"
"No, I insist! It's outrageous that you have been left unsatisfied and silent," said John, moving swiftly to sit beside her. "I've never received a bad report before, and—"
"John!"
"If you keep exclaiming my name like that, I really will kiss you."
Florence's lips parted in astonishment.
John's voice had suddenly become... different. More intimate, more sensual. And his attention had left her face and—well, not quite left her face. Had left her eyes. Were now tracing the lines of her lips with his pupils, which flared with something that couldn't be desire.
It just couldn't be.
Florence wetted her dry lips but apparently that was the wrong thing to do, because John shifted closer in his seat, making it impossible for her to think.
And she had to think. She couldn't just sit on this sofa with the Marquess of Aylesbury advancing on her like... like...
Like you had always wished , a small voice pointed out in a smug tone.
No, she hadn't , she thought hastily, banishing the thought away swiftly.
Liar.
"Tell me," said John quietly. "Tell me what you didn't like about my kisses."
Oh, this was sweet torture. Florence wondered whether she could pretend to faint. At this rate, she may actually do so. The room had been boiling as it was, the hot summer sun pouring through the windows, and now that John was here—
Here, in the room, seated beside her, asking for her assessment of his kisses...
"Or if it's easier, tell me what you want from my kisses," murmured John, leaning so close his breath rippled across her skin. "I'll take instruction, I promise..."
Florence's eyelashes fluttered, unable to help themselves, as John lowered his head and pressed a kiss upon the curve of her neck, just below her ear.
Oh, God.
Tingles of pleasure flickered through her body and Florence found herself grasping the end of the sofa with her left hand.
This was not happening. This was impossible—handsome and charming men did not attempt to make love to Miss Florence Bailey in the middle of the day!
At least, they never had before.
"John," she whispered, hoping to goodness her voice would stay steady. "John, you mustn't—"
"Either tell me what my kisses are really like, or tell me how they can be improved," John murmured with a chuckle as he pressed a kiss after each word slowly down her neck. "I know you were lying, Florence. I know what I do to you."
Florence almost whimpered but managed to contain herself. Something was shifting inside her, heat flowing down her neck to where her breasts tingled, pressed against the stays and corset that were suddenly far too tight.
"Y-Your . . . your kisses . . . oh, John—"
"Tell me," he said mercilessly as his lips grazed her collarbone then nipped at her décolletage.
Florence closed her eyes, just for a moment, as though that would aid her concentration—but all it did was remove one sense and heighten the others.
"Tell me," John said urgently.
And no longer resisting, Florence found herself saying, "Kissing... oh, John, kissing you is the most incredible thing I've ever experienced. I—I never thought I could... you make me want to—"
And she probably would have continued, speaking nonsense, the truth spilling out from her lips because she simply couldn't hold it in any longer.
Would have.
But it was rather difficult to do with John's questing lips now pressed hard against her own.
And this time it was Florence who opened for him. She did not need his hungry tongue teasing apart her lips. She welcomed him in, her tongue darting out to meet his own in heady desire.
John moaned, twisting so his body covered hers, and Florence found herself pressed against the sofa in an agony of delight.
This was what she wanted. This was what she craved—this connection, this intimacy with the man who had charmed her two years ago then made it impossible to forget him.
His hands were on her upper arms, holding her tight, but Florence didn't know why. She was hardly going to wish to escape this cacophony of delight, this aching need to be close to him, these kisses which—
John sprang away from her just as the door to the parlor opened.
"Shall I ring for more tea, miss?" asked the Bailey housekeeper before she entered the room. "And some cakes for—oh. Oh my."
Florence tried to breathe normally.
Oh, she must look like a state. Her hair was undoubtedly mussed, she knew her cheeks were pink—she could feel them burning—and her lips had to be crushed red from all the ardor which had just moments ago been lavished upon them.
Mrs. Harris obviously had guessed what had been occurring just seconds before she had stepped into the room, for her cheeks were as pink as Florence's felt. "I-I... cake and... and tea and—"
"N-No, th-thank you, Mrs. Harris," Florence managed to say, though how, she had no idea. "W-We are... we do not need..."
It appeared that was enough. Mrs. Harris bobbed a curtsy and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Florence's breathing was still ragged as she glanced over at John, who had a sheepish expression on his face.
"Damn," he said. "That's what comes of trying to stay away from you."
Whatever could he mean by such a thing? It was preposterous, that's what this was. She should never have allowed him to—
"I think I'll move seats," said John, rising to his feet.
Florence did not think, she merely acted. "Don't."
He halted and looked at his hand. So did Florence.
She was holding it.
John's fingers were soft, as soft as she recalled from when he held her against the sofa and kissed her silly. But there was something else there, too.
Was that her pulse, racing away? Or his?
John slowly lowered himself back onto the sofa. "You should be careful, you know."
Florence nodded, releasing his hand as though burned by it and dropping her eyes to her own hands, now clasped in her lap. "I-I know. Mrs. Harris c-could have—"
"I meant in your words to me. The most incredible thing you have ever experienced, you said," he murmured, repeating back her own words to her.
It was mortifying hearing them spoken like that. What had come over her?
"If you're not careful, I may actually end up falling in love with you."
Florence's mouth went dry as she looked up at the rake seated beside her.
Much to her surprise, John held her gaze—and even more astonishingly, there was no mirth in his expression. The jesting man she had been so enchanted by was still there, but there was something different about him now. Something... not serious, either, but somewhere in between.
He certainly looked as though he was speaking in earnest. Which was ridiculous. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, that was all, Florence told herself sternly. She had been most clear with him after that kiss against the carriage in the Knights' drive. They would both benefit, and they wouldn't have to worry about... about that.
Besides, a man like John Chance, Marquess of Aylesbury, did not go about falling in love with wallflowers who couldn't string more than ten words together!
No, she needed to keep her head. Even if it was being kissed spectacularly by a handsome man.
"Y-You didn't fall in love with m-me the first time," Florence said, in an attempt to make light of the situation.
It did not work. Instead of laughing and agreeing with her, John merely nodded his head seriously. "No. I was an idiot."
What did that mean?
Florence's head ached with the effort of always trying to understand the world, but with John, it was more like jolting unexpectedly off a horse. There were times when she understood him exactly, did not even need words to decipher his thoughts. And there were other times, like this.
He was looking at her with all the solemnity of a priest. His chiseled jaw was taut, as though... as though he regretted the past.
That had to be a nonsense. Didn't it?
"John," Florence said firmly. Time to reiterate their agreement. "We—wh-what are you doing?"
"Holding your hand," John said simply. "Do you mind?"
He was not just holding it, but entwining his fingers with hers. It was... intimate. And though the aching need for him which had never truly dampened down from the moment he had kissed her at the Knights' still burned in her core, Florence was astonished to find something else was curling around her breast.
The love she had suppressed. It was getting out!
"You know, I wasn't jesting," John said quietly. "Earlier. If... if you did wish to practice. More often, I meant, in the lead up to the wedding, I would be quite happy to—Florence?"
She had jerked her hand away from his and risen, managing to take five steps away before he said her name. Said it with such disappointment, such surprise.
Florence tried to slow her breathing, placing a hand on her breast and feeling the panic pump her lungs like bellows.
He was suggesting lovemaking. To her!
It was the one part of their agreement which had not been spoken—but she had not thought it needed to be. Of course they would not... John had no need to...
"I will not be pitied," Florence said with restraint before turning.
To her surprise, John looked just as confused as he did before. "Pitied?"
"I am not—I-I will not be..." Try as she might, it was impossible to get her lungs under control. And the panic that rose, panic she knew would overwhelm her, making it impossible to—
"Florence."
She gasped as John's hands once again clasped her upper arms, but this time it was not a clinch of passion, it was—
"Breathe, Florence," John said quietly, his worried eyes raking her face. "Breathe with me. In. Out. In—yes, that's right. And out."
Florence's fingers grasped in horror at John's chest, finding his lapels and holding onto them for dear life. For if she did not, how would she breathe? How would she be? She would fall apart into a million pieces and then there would be nothing left of her.
"Breathe, Florence," John repeated, his determinedly solid presence calming in a way Florence had never known. "Breathe with me."
And she did. Concentrating as best she could, hardly aware of the spinning room or the dazzling light or the overpowering heat, Florence clutched onto John... and breathed.
When she finally had a semblance of control over her lungs, she looked up from the elegantly tied cravat and forced herself to meet John's eyes.
"I am sorry," he said.
Florence's eyes widened. "I-I was going to—"
"You do not have anything to apologize for," he said, and his voice remained low. "I should not have—teasing you was only supposed to... I am sorry, Florence."
She nodded hastily, unsure whether she could say any more.
How had he done that? Seen the pain in her, the panic, and known precisely what to do? How had he calmed her with nothing but his own presence, his own breath?
"I am sorry," he said again.
Florence swallowed. "I-I-I . . . I do not . . . I am not just an object to desire."
"I know that—I should have known better," John said. "Look, I'll make this easy for you."
Easy for her? What on earth did that mean?
His smile was sorrowful, and there was a catch in his voice as he said, "I can see what happened, and it's all my fault. I should have said, from the very... Florence. This marriage of convenience, it does not behold you to—I would never expect..."
Florence stared, trying desperately to understand what on earth the man was trying to say.
"When we marry, I will not expect, nor demand, that from you."
"That?"
"Lovemaking," he said calmly, his voice now steady. "Kisses whenever you want them, yes. You'll find me most... most willing. But I am taking marital union, for want of a better word, off the table. You don't have to worry. I'll never ask you for that again."
Florence's lips parted in astonishment.
It was kindly done. It was spoken well, and with respect, and more than a little reverence. It was the last part of their agreement which had not been discussed, and now it had been.
In quite the opposite direction of what she had hoped.
"There," said John brightly. "Now you can relax."
Florence slowly released the man's lapels and stepped back, before she did something foolish.
Like kiss him.
Like tell him she wanted more, so much more, just as long as he wanted her, not just a willing body.
Like tear off his jacket and—
"Well. Good," Florence said faintly with what she hoped was a smile. "That's settled then. Excellent."