Ravishing Regencies- The Complete Series

by Emily Murdoch

  “You – you are so beautiful,” George breathed. He seemed unable to say any more, but for Florence, it was enough.

  She was not sure how they managed it, their movements tangled in hazy memories of lust and something that could have been love but she did not have time to examine it too quickly. All she knew was that they had been standing, adoring the sight of each other, and now they were lying entangled together on the small bed, limbs heating limbs, hands caressing bodies, and lips kissing any part of each other they could reach.

  “Oh George, yes,” she moaned as his hand enclosed her breast and grazed her nipple, building the ache in her loins that seemed damp and warm, and desperate for him.

  He did not speak, merely groaned like an animal as she twisted, pulling him over her and nestling him between her legs.

  Florence stared up at him, this man who had made her lose all her inhibitions and say yes to the greatest pleasure she had ever known, and she had thought to speak, to say this to him, to try and explain how happy she was, and then he pierced her and she arched her back in feverish ecstasy as the rhythm he started to build matched the aching waves of pleasure inside her, and then it overwhelmed her and she cried out in frenzied joy and he was shouting with her, and their climax echoed between them in shudders of mingled love.

  All she could hear was their breathing, and their hearts beating in time.

  George’s head was buried by her neck, and after a minute of just resting, exhilarating in the feeling of each other, he lifted his eyes to look into hers.

  “That . . . that was incredible.”

  Florence beamed at him, her eyelashes lazily fluttering. “I-I never thought it could be that way. That instinctive. That . . .”

  Her words trailed away, but they did not seem to need words anymore. Lying there, twisted around each other and revelling in the heat of their bodies, they remained quiet for another ten minutes.

  “You may not believe this,” said George quietly, tilting his body so he lay beside her. Florence turned to look back at him. “But I had never actually met with Teresa before.”

  Her eyebrows creased. “That is . . . interesting.”

  He smiled and shook his head slightly. “No, you do not understand me. I mean I had never met with her. Or anyone like her. This . . . this was my first time, and I am so pleased I have shared it with you.”

  Her heart leapt as she stared at him, open mouthed. “You cannot be serious. I had thought – why, you seemed to know exactly what you were doing!”

  George chuckled slightly. “Then I have done a far better job than I had thought!”

  Florence laughed with him, and he reached out a hand to grasp her own. “George, I am so overjoyed that . . . mia parola, it is strange to say I feel honoured?”

  “‘Tis a very English approach, to be sure,” grinned George, his jawline creasing the dark stubble across his cheeks. “Though unpractised as I am in this situation, I am not entirely sure what the recommended conversation afterwards is meant to be.”

  She stared at him in wonder. She was his first, and he hers. It was as though the stars had aligned perfectly for them, and now her fears about comparison, natural given what he had hinted about another woman, this Honoria – and a twist of something that tasted like jealousy seemed to overcome her tongue.

  He was watching her, and he seemed to guess her thoughts as he said, “No, Florence, my darling. This is it. You are the first.”

  Her treacherous heart hoped he would continue with the words: and the last. But they didn’t, and she felt embarrassed to ask whether she would be the one and only one.

  “You know,” she whispered, conscious of the way her breasts moved as she spoke, leaning on her side. “This is the most perfect moment I have ever known.”

  Now her heart was beating faster, faster as it was when they had made love, but there was no ache growing between her legs, but hope growing in her heart.

  “I could never have known how this would draw us together,” he was saying. “I feel closer to you than I do with anyone in England.”

  Florence giggled, and nudged his nose with hers. “My Lord George, you are closer to me than anyone in England!”

  He smiled, and smiling, kissed her full on the mouth. She closed her eyes briefly, losing herself once more in his intoxicating kiss. This was love, what else could it be? Every inch of her longed for him, but not just his body but his mind, his laughter, his company.

  She had fallen head over heels for the Lord she was lost with.

  “I hope,” he said quietly, breaking the kiss, “you are not too sore.”

  She shifted slightly, and felt nothing but a warm, stretched feeling. “No,” she replied quietly. “Nothing but joyful tiredness.”

  George chuckled. “I can completely agree on that score; I think I forget, sometimes, that it is the middle of the night!”

  They relapsed into silence, and Florence took the opportunity to rake over his features: those dark eyes, that strong jaw, the broad shoulders that had moved above her, ready to take possession of her – there was no one like him, no one like her lost Lord.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” He had spoken softly, breathing the words rather than speaking them, and his eyelashes fluttered with heavy tiredness – so he did not see the jolt of love and contentment flash across her face.

  Florence took a deep breath. Once this was said, there was no going back. There was no returning from this declaration, and his reaction would completely undo her or confirm a lifetime of happiness. Her eyes dropped to his chin, unable to look into his eyes as she said, “I think the only thing that could prevent me from returning to Italy would be meeting someone I simply could not leave.”

  For ten whole seconds she held her breath, waiting for a response.

  None came.

  “George?” She murmured his name as she lifted her gaze to his eyes – and found them closed. “George?”

  The frenzied breathing that they had both shared had settled now into a regular rhythm in her, but had descended into sleep in her companion.

  Florence smiled indulgently. There would by more than enough time for that conversation in the morning.

  8

  George wasn’t exactly sure what it was that woke him. It could have been the thin sharp beam of sunlight that found its way through the ragged curtains at the window. It could have been the searing squawks from the seagulls soaring past the door. But most likely, it was the feel of another with him.

  Eyes opening slowly, it took a moment for him to recognise his surroundings. A dirty floor – and a chair that was overturned, roughly made and scarcely like anything from his rooms at all.

  He was lying on a mattress with a warm and lithe body in his arms, and the sounds of the riot that had forced them there had disappeared.

  The body stirred, and a curl of dark hair moved across Florence Capria’s face. George smiled to see it, and luxuriated in the feeling of her feet entangled beside his. Who would have thought that he could leave his home looking for a courtesan, and discover a woman closer to a lover than a stranger?

  A lover who was waking up.

  “Good morning,” whispered George gently. He tilted his head back, to better look at her, and marvelled once more at her beauty. The odds of meeting such a woman anywhere were astronomical: but here, at the London docks?

  “Morning?” came the sleepy reply from his companion. “Morn – mio Dio, where are we?”

  Whether it was panic or just plain confusion, George did not know, but she flailed slightly and leaving his comforting embrace, fell off the mattress onto the floor.

  “Ouch!”

  George could not help but laugh. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he surveyed the scene: a beautiful and completely naked woman lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling in complete confusion.

  “We are hidden away in our own private island,” he said, his voice deep and his eyes unable to look away from her perfect form. �
��We are lost, I am afraid to say, and will probably have to search for our way out. We are two lost souls who found refuge together.”

  Her startled eyes softened as the memories came flooding back. “My Lord George, Buongiorno! It is molto bene to – scusa, Italian always comes more naturally to me this early in the morning. And speaking of which: exactly what time is it?”

  For a spilt second, George did not want to tell her. “What care we for the time? It does not matter what the hour is, as long as we are happy.”

  Rising, Florence picked up his greatcoat and wrapped it around her, removing his pleasure in seeing her, but giving him a new delight in seeing her engulfed in his own garment.

  “I am happy,” she said honestly, with a frankness that George was still becoming accustomed to. “You are – you are a very great man, George. Last night was . . .”

  Her voice trailed away; whether due to sensibilities or qualcosa, he did not know. All he knew was that he wanted to repeat the experience, again, and again – for the rest of his life, perhaps.

  But this was madness, what was he thinking? He pulled a hand through his hair to try and rid his mind of this ridiculous thought. Marry Florence Capria? Marry a woman who he met less than twenty-four hours ago? He was mad!

  “. . . do not you think?”

  George shook his head as though shaking water from his ears. Concentrate, man.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said politely. “I am afraid hunger caused my mind to wander.” And now that he thought about it, he really was starving. “What did you say?”

  Florence smiled, and as one corner of her mouth curled, George found his stomach lurched. “I said, signore, that as the riot seems to have dissipated, we should probably – I mean, we cannot stay here, can we?”

  He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say, of course we can: we can stay here as long as we like, and we can make love again, and you can tell me all about Italy, and I can tell you about the ton, and we can laugh together, and entwine our lives.

  “No, no. We cannot stay here.” George hated himself for giving in to propriety, but what choice did he have? A gentleman and a lady, sharing a room for the night? Even if they had not indulged in each other’s bodies, it would have been scandalous.

  The awkwardness felt by both was tempered with the hot memories of just a few hours before. George wanted to watch her dress, wanted to take every moment he could with her, but knew by the upward fluttering of her eyelashes and the slight flush that tinged her cheeks as she gathered up her chemise that Florence would not like it.

  And what she liked seemed essential now. His every action revolved around her, his very senses seemed attuned to her and nothing else. When he turned his back to stare at the wall, he heard his greatcoat fall from her shoulders to the floor, and he clenched his fist and almost groaned aloud at the thought of what he could see if he just tilted his head.

  The temptation was great, but he was strong, and within five minutes the two lovers had been replaced by Miss Florence Capria and Lord George Northmere.

  “It does sound quiet,” she said, eyes flickering from one side to the other as she peered through the cracked window, pushing back dingy curtains. “Do you suppose there is any chance the fight could be continuing elsewhere?”

  Another chance to keep them there for longer, another temptation: but George was strong. He swallowed, and said, “No, I think the violence has run its course: either they are at home, nursing their wounds, or else the Bow Street Runners have most of them in their cells. Whichever it is, we should be safe.”

  They dragged the chest from the door after Florence had rescued her luggage from it, and George drew back the bolt. The sound rang out in the silence, and Florence shivered.

  “It is hard to believe there is a world outside that door,” she whispered. She was incredibly close to him, her shoulder touching his own. “It is as though we built our own world in here, is it not, Lord George?”

  Her tongue seemed to caress his name, and George closed his eyes briefly and saw the arched back, the pleasure-drunk eyes, those red lips open and panting his name.

  “Yes,” he said jerkily, eyes snapped open and attempting to focus on the current Miss Florence Capria who was standing before him. “And yet . . . Miss Capria, would you allow me the honour of escorting you home?”

  Was that disappointment he saw in her eyes at the more formal name – or was it excitement at the thought of spending twenty more precious minutes with him? How was it possible that two hearts, two bodies, two souls could be so aligned one moment, and then they could return to being perfect strangers the next?

  “That would be lovely,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

  George swallowed once more, and felt a hand slip into his own. With renewed joy, he pushed open the door.

  Both of them flinched at the brightness of the sun as it hit their eyes, and Florence raised a hand to shield her eyes from its glare. George blinked, and looked around.

  They were standing on the London docks, with three ships before them in a line. Seagulls were indeed floating around their heads, and though it was still early, there were a few men already hard at work on the decks on the ships.

  “But – why, that is the very ship I saw last night!” Florence stared at the boat, her brow furrowed in disbelief. “Lord George, I do declare that is the very ship I happened upon, and it is going to Italy!”

  It was most unfair, George thought bitterly, that he should be dealt such a blow. To think, they could have hidden anywhere last night, and instead they seemed to have run around in a circle, and now found themselves right in the path of the one vessel in London it seemed to be perfectly calculated to take Florence away from his side.

  He squeezed the hand in his own. “D-Do you think so? One ship much looks like any other, if you ask me.”

  The hand squeezed back, but tugged him forwards. “Nay, I am sure of it! There is one way to find out, of course – come, let us ask the captain – ”

  There was a pain in his stomach now where joy had just moments before been residing. George stared at the ship, the instrument to remove another woman from his side. Had he not suffered enough? Surely it was his turn to be fortunate!

  “Flo-Miss Capria,” he said hurriedly. “Why do we not return to my rooms for breakfast – or we could visit my club, I do not think it is far from here – ”

  But her strength, her determination to discover whether this was the ship in question, was propelling them across the straw strewn street, and before George could even think about finishing his sentence, they were beside the ship.

  “Yes, yes; I remember this flag formation,” Florence was saying, eyes shining as she beheld the ship. “This must be the same.”

  “Can I help you miss, sir?” A gruff voice sounded from behind them, and George felt Florence’s hand slip from his own as she turned to greet it.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said prettily as she curtseyed. George watched as she tilted her head with a smile, and felt a twinge of bitterness course through his heart. “We were wondering whether this ship be bound for Italy, as I think it is.”

  The owner of the gruff voice was just as gruff on the outside; a rough leather jacket covered what appeared to be many layers, and a straggly beard covered the face, which nodded. “Yes ma’am, this one be bound for Italy, leaving this midday.”

  The joy that spread across Florence’s face as the man stumped off onto the ship told George absolutely everything he needed to know.

  Evidently that moment between them last night had been more precious to himself than to her. It had meant more to him, fool that he was, and though he had danced with ideas of marriage, she was even now planning her escape from him.

  “. . . which is the most incredible luck, do not you think?” she was saying, smiling up at him broadly. “And I cannot thank you enough, Lord George, for – for protecting me last night.”

  That was all she saw you as, George thought to himself as he tried to smile bac
k at her. A protector. Someone to keep her safe for a night. Just like Honoria, all Florence Capria wants to do is to leave you.

  Ask me to stay, Florence begged him silently as she looked up at his stony face. Where was the man she had seen last night – had given herself to, had abandoned all decorum to make love to? All she could see now was a stern gentleman with little laughter in his eyes, and a silent mouth.

  “I suppose it is a pity it is leaving today,” she said purposefully, smiling at him once more and hoping in her heart he would speak. Stay with me, he would ask. I do not want you to go, he would say. I love you, he would declare.

  But Lord George Northmere did not ask, say, or declare anything of the sort, and Florence felt the shame of it deep in her bones. Surely, if he had felt what she had that moment of ecstasy, he could never let her even think of leaving him!

  “Yes, what a pity,” he said, his voice expressionless and his eyes unwilling to be caught by hers.

  Florence could feel the heat of her temper rise within her, but it was coupled with a sadness she had not known before. To think she should lose her innocence with a man who clearly had no wish to see her again.

  She swallowed, and tightened her fingers around her luggage. “And once I am on the ship, it will be many months until I return to these shores. Perhaps years.”

  A response: any response, anything that could tell her he felt a little of the torment that was raging inside her own mind and heart – but no.

  “You will enjoy Italy, I am sure,” said Lord George Northmere, eyes flickering over the rigging of the ship. “And she is a fine ship, by the look of her. I am sure you will be quite safe.”

  Quite safe – quite safe! Florence wanted to pull his proud and handsome face towards her and kiss it, kiss the life back into him, kiss him until he softened and returned to the George that she had thought she had glimpsed.