“No.”
He was too aware of the ragged quality of his voice, too aware of the fragile veneer, thin as tissue paper, that stood between acting like a gentleman and taking advantage of this young woman and what was on offer. Oh, God. He wanted her, so badly that he felt giddy with it. He wanted to show her what it was she was so intent on getting from him and….
Breathe, Henry, Breathe.
“Why not? You want to kiss me.”
He gave an outraged bark of laughter. “You little fool. I want a deal more than to kiss you. You’re just too damned naïve to be afraid.”
The wretched creature just shook her head. “I promise you I am in no way naïve. Inexperienced, perhaps, but not ignorant, nor as foolish as you might suppose, and I’m not afraid of you. I could never be afraid of you.”
“Then you’re an idiot.”
“Sticks and stones, Mr Stanhope,” she retorted, her amusement obvious.
She looked so damned smug, a knowing glint in her eyes that told him she knew he was all talk, that he was too honourable to do anything to frighten her. Irritation burned. He wanted to shake her composure until it was as wrecked as his own.
It wasn’t as if he decided to do it, but before his brain had time to catch up, he’d grabbed hold of her, pressing her against the cold wall of the building with his body, holding her by her wrists, pinning her in place.
Mistake. Mistake. Mistake!
He shook with the force of the struggle going on inside him, the battle between what we wanted and good sense. Bar the tremble in his limbs he kept utterly still and breathed in that maddening rose scent, fighting a silent war against desire, fighting to remain calm, to behave as he ought. His longing to shock her fought his need to behave like a gentleman as his composure fractured by degrees. His lips touched the smooth skin of her brow, his breath moving over her as he fought to control his need, to bring himself back to his senses. She shivered against him but made no protest, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her softness pillowed against his harder frame.
Stop this. Stop this. You are behaving like a madman. You’ll frighten the poor girl.
Henry drew in a shaky breath and pulled back, trying to find words to make an apology. Another mistake. A mistake to look into her eyes, expecting to see fury, but finding the emerald green dark with wanting.
“Please,” she whispered.
Henry closed his eyes, praying for patience, for sanity, for the strength to ignore the pounding of his heart, the way his blood was rushing through his veins, and the desperate throb of his aching cock. He wanted… so many things, with a longing too profound to comprehend.
“Henry. Please…”
He groaned, knowing he was in deep trouble, unable to resist that wicked please that would lead him to ruin. For that was the crux of the matter, it was not her in danger of ruination, it was him.
His hands moved up from her wrists, their fingers interlacing as he lowered his head and took her mouth. She opened for him at once, letting him in with no resistance and whatever sanity remained in his thick head shrivelled and died. He took and took, and she met him at every turn, giving everything he demanded with enthusiasm. Not her first kiss, he thought dimly, and though he’d wager she’d little experience, she learned quickly. Her lithe body pressed against his in invitation, her hands sinking into his hair.
Henry drew back, and she made a whimpering sound of protest.
“Hush,” he murmured, stripping off his sodden coat and waistcoat.
They were soaked through, and she did not need to be made any colder. Henry returned to her and took her in his arms once more, stealing another kiss, devouring her like a starving man offered the sweetest of treats. He became aware of the damp material of her gown through his thin shirt. Surely, she’d catch a chill if she didn’t take it off? She should take it all off. He could keep her warm. The idea had merit, melding too well with his every desperate desire. He wanted to take her here on the floor of this damned hut, to make her his, to keep her with him….
Wait, what?
He dragged his mouth free of hers, but she’d tugged his shirt from his trousers and her soft, cold hands slid over his skin. Henry gasped at the shock of it, and not just the temperature of her fingers. He felt branded, his flesh burning for her, wanting, needing to feel her body against his. Christ, he’d not felt this out of control since he was a lad. What the devil was wrong with him? If he didn’t get a grip, he was going to have her and then he’d be honour-bound to marry her. No. No.
Henry stared down at her, struggling to find words to stop this.
“Florence….” he began, his voice ragged. “Florence, we can’t. I must not….”
She looked up at him, her cheeks and throat flushed, her lips red and swollen from his kisses.
“Henry,” she said, a helpless plea. She trembled in his arms, her hands moving over him restlessly as she pressed against him, seeking, wanting. “Please… I’ll run mad….”
Henry heard the desperation in her voice and understood all too well what she was feeling. Though he’d made himself forget, it was too easy to unearth the memories, those days he’d fancied himself in love with Lily, the certainty that he’d lose his mind if he could not be with her, touch her… Christ.
He could not hurt Florence like Lily had hurt him. He needed to put a stop to this. Now.
“Easy, love,” he murmured, pressing her head against his shoulder, and pulling her to him. “This is a mistake.”
He forced the words out, reminding himself that she was not only an innocent, a lady, but his friend’s daughter, for the love of God. He would not be this man, the kind who would take advantage of a young woman’s misguided passion.
“It’s not a mistake,” she said, anger in her voice, though it was muffled against his chest. She looked up and his breath caught at the fierce burn in her green eyes. “I am not a mistake!”
Henry swallowed, reaching out to smooth a damp coil of dark hair from her forehead.
“No,” he said gently. “But I am.”
“No!” she insisted, the stubborn creature.
Henry took hold of her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Listen to me. There’s some handsome young fellow out there waiting for you, someone as full of enthusiasm and joy as you are, someone who wants a life with you, children, and a home and all the things you deserve, but it’s not me. I don’t want those things. I don’t want a wife.”
She pushed at his chest and Henry released her, taken aback by the anger in her eyes.
“Liar!” she exclaimed, facing him head on. No tears, no tantrums… just a cool fury that refused his placations. “You’re a liar, Henry Stanhope! And, worse than that, you’re a coward.”
Henry jolted as though she’d slapped him. “Now, wait just a moment—”
“I won’t wait, and I won’t listen either. If you didn’t want me, it would be different, but you obviously do. I know you were hurt before and I understand why you’re afraid, but you can’t spend your whole life running away. You came back, Henry. You came back for a reason, so don’t take to your heels just because claiming everything you thought lost means you must take a chance.”
“I came back to see my sister, to check on my property,” he retorted, though the words rang as hollow as his chest had felt of late. He’d come back because he was homesick, lonely, because….
Florence gave him a look of such pitying disgust that his temper flared.
“If I had come back to marry, I’d hardly be looking at one of my friend’s daughters to fill the position! What the devil do I want with some silly child barely out of the schoolroom?”
He saw the hurt flare in her eyes at his words and waited for the tears, for her angry words. Perhaps she’d throw something at him. God knew he deserved it. Instead she just let out a breath of laughter, though not the happy kind. She turned away from him and went and sat by the fire.
“You know as well as I do, I am no child. Many of my friends ma
rried four or five years ago, some have children already. It’s just an excuse you are using to keep me at a distance. One day you’ll look back upon your life and remember this day. One day, when you’re alone and it is too late to change the mistakes you’ve made. If you won’t be honest with me, you should at least be honest with yourself.”
“What on earth makes you think you know my mind better than I do? You barely know me.”
“Am I wrong?”
She stared at him, challenging him, daring him to look her in the eyes and deny all the things he had once wanted and hoped for, to deny that he wanted them still, despite everything. Something hurt and angry boiled inside him. He wanted to lash out at her for making him face it again when he’d thought such feelings long since buried.
He’d resigned himself to a bachelor life. It was a good life, one he’d enjoyed, one he did not want to give up now, not even for her. He heard the lie and knew he could not say those words aloud and not have her hear it too. Panic uncoiled in his guts, cold and uncomfortable, making him reckless.
“And what if I do as you think I ought? What if I marry you and in twenty years, ten even, you realise you made a mistake in marrying a man so much your senior?” he demanded, shocking himself with the anger in his voice, with the realisation that he feared this above all things… that he might let himself care for her, love her, only to have her regret her decision and despise him for it.
He would not put himself in such a position again. Never again would he be made to feel a fool for loving a woman who didn’t want him.
Her expression softened, her eyes growing bright.
“Oh, Henry….” she began, but he could not stand it.
He did not want her care, certainly not her pity. He wanted no part in this… this ridiculous notion that they could possibly have a future together.
“Don’t,” he snapped, snatching up his coat and waistcoat and tugging them on, which was difficult when the material was so damp. He fought his way into them with sharp, angry movements. “I’m going to check on the horse,” he muttered, and hurried out of the blasted hut before things could get any worse.
Thank God the worst of the weather seemed to have cleared, for now at least. The rain had slowed to a thin drizzle and the thunder was only a distant grumble, barely audible. Henry hurried around to his horse, who seemed undisturbed by his less than salubrious accommodation and was snoozing peacefully. He leaned against the beast and let out a slow breath, trying to release the tension singing through his bones. His shoulders were stiff and taut, but the pain did not end there. Though he wanted to deny it, his heart felt bruised, too exposed, and that was before he considered the thrum of unfulfilled lust that still burned in his blood.
“Hell and damnation, Henry,” he muttered. The horse turned its head to regard him with mild curiosity. He shrugged at the beast. “I’m an idiot.”
The horse grunted and Henry groaned. This was bad. Very, very bad.
“Henry!”
Henry turned as a familiar voice hailed him and saw Sterling riding towards him with Florence’s mount in tow. Thank God.
“Is she well?” he asked as he came level with the shack.
“Yes, fine. Just took a little tumble,” Henry lied, not about to say anything about Florence’s absurd scheme to get him alone. “Thanks for bringing the horse.”
Sterling shrugged.
“We got caught in the storm,” Henry added unnecessarily.
“Reckoned,” Sterling replied, giving him a considering look. “We made it to the inn on Saint’s Hill. Don’t think the storm’s done yet. Best make haste.”
Henry nodded and set about readying his horse.
Chapter 7
Dear Viv and Ash,
I hope you are both well. I am so sorry that I didn’t get to see more of you this summer, but Papa had so much to do at Trevick that we had to return. I am so looking forward to next season when we can all be together again. I had a letter from Arabella telling me all about her life at Royle House. It sounds terribly romantic—well, apart from the parrot—and I am horribly envious. A little bird told me a story about a hat and a dare, Viv. You’d best write and tell me everything at once. I cannot believe you have not already done so. Some friend you are, keeping me in the dark. You’d best wait until we are together before you attempt it, or I shall be very cross.
Ash, I do hope you like the enclosed waistcoat, I thought the embroidery rather fine if I say so myself. The embroidered stockings are for Viv, of course. I hope you like them. I had a dreadful time not bleeding on the white silk as the roses were so fiddly. Trevick is a romantic place but deadly dull at times, so these have kept me occupied. I am making something as a belated wedding gift for Arabella now. By the way, do you think Bainbridge would wear a waistcoat with parrots on it?
―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick) to Mr Ashton Anson and Miss Vivien Anson (son and daughter of Aashini and Silas Anson, Viscountess and Viscount Cavendish)
Still the 15th of August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
Florence sank into the hot bath with a sigh of relief. She’d never been so cold in her life. After a stop at the inn on Saint’s Hill whilst the storm rumbled about menacingly for another hour, they returned to Holbrook without further incident. She knew Henry’s sister had persuaded him to stay the night instead of riding the extra distance home though she was surprised he’d agreed to it. No doubt he wanted to run away from her. After what had happened, Florence didn’t doubt Henry would go back to ignoring her and staying as far from her as possible. How depressing. She did not know what to do about him.
On the one hand, if he did not want her, she ought to respect his wishes and keep away. On the other, the foolish man clearly did want her, he was just held in check by the events of his past, events that would keep him chained to a lonely future if she didn’t set him free. Surely, she ought to help him past that, even—and this thought made her swallow hard—even if it only freed him to find someone else. Not that she was going to hand him over without a fight.
Florence closed her eyes and sighed as she remembered the muddle of sensations being in his arms had provoked. Good heavens, but the man could kiss. It had not been her first kiss. When Mr Yates had been courting her, she had allowed him to kiss her. It seemed foolish not to kiss a man one was contemplating marrying. It had been one of the many things that had disappointed her about him. At first, she had believed he was as inexperienced as she and thought perhaps they just needed practise. It quickly became apparent he cared little for her pleasure, though, too intent on taking what he wanted and groping what parts of her he might in the brief moments she had endured it. His kiss had been wet and hard and unsettling, and not in a good way. Kissing Henry had been nothing like that. Though he had taken control, demanded more and more, it had never felt as if he was overpowering her, only asking her to meet him, to follow where he led. His kiss had been challenging, yes, but it had also been tender, his hands had been careful, holding her as if she meant something, like she was precious.
Florence sighed, aware of a restless simmer beneath her skin, of the need to be with him, to feel the weight of his body upon hers. He was so big and capable and… she groaned and rested her head on her knees. Henry Stanhope, I will make you pay for this insanity, for kissing me and giving me a taste of what we could have and making me want to act like a lunatic.
That first taste of him had been intoxicating, and it would never be enough.
“Something must be done about Henry,” Harriet said, her brow crinkled endearingly as she pushed her spectacles up her nose. “I fear he is determined to live the rest of his days a bachelor. I shall have to think who else we can invite who would make him a good wife, though he didn’t take the slightest notice of the eligible women I invited for him.”
Jasper, Earl of St Clair, regarded his wife with amusement, only a little surprised that the disturbingly prescient wom
an had not noticed the obvious.
“Didn’t he, dear?” Matilda said with an enquiring lift of one eyebrow that was far too nonchalant.
Ah, someone had noticed, and he could hardly be surprised if it was the Marchioness of Montagu. Matilda had been the mother hen of their group of Peculiar Ladies, and the one responsible for many of the matchmaking schemes that had found the close-knit group of friends happily married. Harriet, never usually slow on the uptake, frowned at her friend.
“Who?” she demanded.
Matilda pursed her lips.
“Well,” she began cautiously. “It wasn’t someone you invited for him, but… but I felt perhaps there was someone who captured his attention.”
Jasper grinned as Matilda glanced up at him.
“You’ve noticed it too,” Harriet accused him. “Oh, Jasper, you never said!”
“Didn’t feel I could, Harry, my love. The poor devil is fighting it tooth and nail and… well, to be honest, I wasn’t certain how you’d feel about it.”
“Why are you both talking in riddles?” Harriet exclaimed, she let out a breath, staring from one to the other of them as though she could see into their brains if she looked hard enough. “Why would I not be pleased if someone here has captured his attention? But, wait… Matilda, you said I didn’t invite the woman for him, so…?”
Jasper poured himself a drink and sat down, amused as he watched his wife’s astonishing brain at work. The trouble was, as clever as she was, affairs of the heart were really not her forte.
“Well?” he pressed, seeing Matilda fighting not to laugh at Harriet’s frustration.
“I don’t know!” Harry exclaimed irritably. It was an answer that never failed to make her wild with frustration.
“Put her out of her misery, for heaven’s sake,” Jasper advised Matilda.
“Well, my dear. I cannot help but think he has feelings for Florence Knight.”
Harriet stared at them both and then gave an exasperated huff of irritation. “Don’t tease. Though I cannot fathom why, he doesn’t even seem to like poor Florence much. For heaven’s sake, he had to apologise for being so rude to her the other day. That hardly seems like….” She broke off as Jasper exchanged a glance with Matilda. “What?”
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 8