“He’s annoyed with her because she provokes him,” Matilda said, keeping her voice gentle. “She’s made no secret of her interest in him. Indeed, Florence is a single-minded young woman, and she has set her sights on your brother. She’s beautiful and eligible and very clever, and poor Henry knows he’s in trouble. He feels trapped and so he’s come out fighting.”
Harriet gaped, before turning back to Jasper for confirmation who nodded.
“He’s afraid he’s too old for her, but I think he’s also terrified of getting hurt again.”
“Florence,” Harriet said in wonder, shaking her head. “I never would have guessed.”
Jasper made a sound of affectionate amusement. “My darling, I was hopelessly in love with you for years and you never suspected a thing. You must admit it’s not your strong suit.”
The look Harriet gave him was filled with such aching regret that he wished he’d not said it.
“Oh, Jasper,” she said, hurrying to sit beside him and take his hand.
“There, there, love. All’s well that ends well. The point is, Florence is falling for Henry hard if I’m any judge, and I think Henry is in more than a little danger himself, no matter his protestations.”
“Henry and Florence,” Harriet said, as if trying the names together and seeing if they fit. “She is much younger than him, it’s true, but she’s no child. I have always found Florence to be forthright and strong. Indeed, she’s a courageous young woman, intelligent too. She’d never bore him with tedious conversation, she’d be an endless challenge. With Gabriel as their father, those girls have suffered their fair share of slights by the ton and yet Florence has never shied away, never backed down. She’s a force to be reckoned with, and….”
Jasper waited whilst Harriet worked it through. She looked up at him and then at Matilda.
“You really think Florence has feelings for him?”
Matilda gave a little laugh. “Darling, she can hardly keep her eyes from him. I admit I am slightly disappointed, as I was looking forward to matchmaking, but there’s nothing to be done except to wait for things to play out. Just you watch when they are next in the same room.”
Harriet nodded, clearly taking Matilda’s observations as beyond doubt. “We need to speak with Helena, but assuming she does not disapprove the match…. Yes. I think that this will do very well indeed.”
Though he’d been wet and cold and weary, Henry was regretting his decision not to carry on back to the Hall. Though Holbrook felt homey in a way his house did not, and the meal before him was excellent, he did not feel at ease. He had the distinct feeling he was being watched, and it was an uncomfortable sensation. He could not figure out who was watching him, either. Florence appeared to be ignoring him, which he thoroughly deserved but did not like a bit, and no one else seemed to want to meet his eye, which was odd.
Perhaps he ought to have made himself go home, though he really hadn’t wanted to. If he were honest, waking up to find a corn doll on the pillow beside his head had been extremely unsettling and Saxenhurst Hall was not the most welcoming of homes at the best of times.
His fault, of course; he’d left it empty all this time and he’d never been happy there, even as a boy. Harriet felt the same, he knew. Holbrook House had been home, Jasper’s mother the epitome of everything a parent ought to be. He’d been more upset than he’d expected when she’d passed away.
Their mother had never had the knack of making a house a home, and Father always seemed to prefer to live in a museum, so that was how the house had felt growing up. Once he’d inherited, Henry had tried to change it, donating many of the collections his father had amassed to various museums and doing his best to make the place somewhere that his wife would wish to live in.
Of course, back then he’d assumed he would marry Lily, that the house would ring to the sound of children’s voices. She’d had great plans for the property, he knew, though looking back he realised she’d wished to make it bigger and far grander than it was. Her ambitions were greater than he’d ever realised, more fool him.
When that dream went to hell, he’d stalked the empty house, not caring what the hell it looked like or if it fell down around him. All that had mattered was licking his wounds in private. Once that had become intolerable, he’d left, turning his back on it all for the best part of a decade. One could hardly wonder at it if the place was less than welcoming, and that was before one counted screams in the night and some mad fool dabbling in witchcraft or whatever mischief it was they were set upon. Henry sighed, picking half-heartedly at a delicious steak and kidney pie that he ought to be devouring, and only belatedly noticing he was being addressed.
“I beg your pardon, Helena,” he said, forcing his attention back to the present. “I was wool gathering.”
“So you were,” Helena said, smiling at him, a considering glint in her eyes that made him want to check his hair and cravat and tug at his waistcoat. It seemed… measuring somehow, as if she were estimating his worth. “I was just curious what you thought about Caroline Norton?”
Henry searched his tired brain for the name which seemed vaguely familiar, though not as an acquaintance. “The Custody of Infants Act?” he wagered.
Helena gave him an odd smile, a bit like a parent who’d assumed their child too dim to get the answer correct and was pleasantly surprised. “The very same.”
“Erm….” he began, a little hesitant. “I think she was stuck in an unhappy marriage with a man who tried to control her, and then tried to ruin her when he discovered she was too strong for him. She fought back and gained some measure of control over the right to her own children, which her idiot husband had no right to keep from her. Her fight has changed the law for many women in similar straits, and I believe she ought to be commended.”
There was a profound silence around the table which Henry could not read. He cleared his throat, feeling rather uncomfortable.
“Of course, I don’t know the ins and outs of it in detail. Only what I’ve read and heard via friends.”
Helena nodded, which seemed to be a gesture of approval, so he relaxed a little. He had the distinct impression he’d just passed a test but, for the life of him, he didn’t know what it was.
“Do you remember, Harry, the days when we said Henry couldn’t chaperone a sponge cake?” Helena asked.
His sister, who had just taken a sip of wine, choked. Jasper sprang to his feet and went to pat his wife on the back.
“There, there, Harry. Here, have a sip of water.”
Harriet took the glass from her husband with a grateful smile, casting Helena an accusatory glance.
“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Henry muttered, looking suspiciously around the assembled company.
Only Florence met his gaze, a challenging look in her eyes that made something hot and impatient stir in his guts. Christ. He ought to have gone home, corn dolls be damned. Between someone playing silly devils, screaming in the night and murdering sheep, and being anywhere near Florence Knight, he knew damned well which was the most dangerous.
Finally, dinner was at an end and Henry thought perhaps he could escape to the safety of his own room. Jasper had other plans for him.
“Fancy a drink, old man? I need a nightcap. Yes, yes, you can keep me company for a few minutes, can’t you?”
Henry sighed. Jasper clearly had something on his mind. He may as well get it over with.
Chapter 8
Dear Aisling,
Ash adores the waistcoat, naturally. Where in heaven’s name did you find that gruesome shade of orange? I swear you two have the most lamentable taste. The sunflowers were extraordinarily well embroidered, though, I must admit. You have a spectacular talent. I only wish you wouldn’t display it quite so vividly upon Ash’s person. He really does not need the encouragement and I believe my eyes are suffering under the glare. If I am forced to wear spectacles, I shall hold you entirely responsible.
I have no information pertaining to Bainbridge and
waistcoats with parrots, further than hearing from Arabella that he prefers parrots stuffed and mounted as a rule.
We long to see you too, darling, and I swear I will wait for you to commit my dare. I may need a partner in crime.
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Vivien Anson (daughter of Aashini and Silas Anson, Viscountess and Viscount Cavendish) to Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick).
Early hours of the 16th of August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.
Florence closed the door behind her as quietly as she could manage. Grace was sleeping at last. She’d known her friend had been unhappy by the way she had laughed and chattered so determinedly. Though she was no wallflower, Grace was inclined to be reserved, which always made her sharp sense of humour even more amusing, as it took one by surprise. Not that she was shy, but Grace preferred to observe people and enjoyed listening to others talk. If she joined in a conversation, her input was always unexpected and intelligent. Grace had a way of seeing the world differently from other people, certainly from Florence, who would admit to sometimes seeing things as rather black or white rather than shades of grey.
Now, though, Grace was deeply unhappy and afraid, not that she would say as much. She was too determined to be brave, to shoulder the burden of her secret alone. It broke Florence’s heart to see it, and she wished she could do something, anything to help her, but she simply did not know how. She had promised to stand beside Grace when the time came and she told her parents, though Grace had stoically shaken her head and kissed Florence’s cheek in thanks for the offer. So Florence had done what she could and stayed with her, talking and keeping her company until she had finally fallen asleep.
Florence smothered a yawn. It must be after midnight for she had heard the chimes what seemed like ages ago. As if on cue, a clock somewhere struck one o’clock. Wearily, Florence turned to walk back to her room, which was two doors down, and found herself staring up at Henry.
She gave a little squeak of alarm and clutched at her heart. “Lud, but you gave me a start! You ought not sneak up on a person in the dark.”
“I didn’t sneak,” he said, an indignant tone to his voice, which sounded different than usual. “And what the devil are you doing wandering about in the dark, in your nightgown? Whose room is that?” Florence narrowed her eyes at him. She could smell brandy on his breath and realised he was foxed. It might be best if he did not know she’d been with Grace, for he’d want next to know why and she did not want him watching Grace with curiosity.
“None of your business who or why,” she said crisply, stalking past him.
It was really too awful of him to ignore her all blasted night and then interrogate her, the wretched man.
His hand grasped her wrist before she got two paces and she stilled, turning to face him. The feel of his warm hand upon her skin was electrifying. All she could think about was how it had felt to put her hands on him earlier. How on earth she’d had the nerve to slide her hands beneath his shirt she would never know, but she wouldn’t ever regret it. Lord, but it had felt marvellous. His skin had been so hot, and surprisingly silky, the play of hard muscle beneath her hands so invigorating she’d wanted to tear his shirt from his body, and would have done if he’d not gone all honourable on her and told her she was making a mistake, the insufferable lummox.
“Whose room is that?” he asked again, an intense expression in his hazel eyes which seemed far darker in the dim light of the hallway.
“What does it matter to you?” Florence demanded. “It’s not as if you want me, is it?”
He made a harsh sound that sent little prickling sensations shivering down her spine.
“Not want you?” he repeated, a dangerous note to the words that had all her instincts standing to attention.
“No,” she said, when a more sensible young woman might have just admitted she’d been chatting with Grace, and they’d lost track of time. “I’m a mistake, remember?”
A sensible young woman would have paid attention to that dangerous note and the matching gleam in his eye and decided a quick apology and faster retreat was in her best interests. Sadly, any sense Florence had been born with seemed to melt into a puddle of warm treacle, alongside anything resembling a brain whenever this irritating, intoxicating man got within twenty paces of her. In those circumstances, provoking him seemed a simply marvellous idea.
“I never said—”
“Yes, you did. A mistake. I remember it quite clearly. So, I may saunter about the house in my nightgown, and visit the devil himself if I so choose, and you may not say a word about it, for it is none of your affair. If I wanted to, I might go outside and dance naked in the fountain, and you could not stop me.”
“Could I not?”
She wondered how his voice had become that low growl. In fact, at this precise moment, he put her strongly in mind of the full-size grizzly bear in the earl’s study. Of course, that one was stuffed whereas Henry was very much alive, but still….
“Do you know why it is a very bad idea to roam about the halls of a house like this in your nightgown, Miss Knight?”
“Hmmm, let me think,” Florence said, making her eyes wide and round and pressing a finger to her mouth in a parody of strong concentration. “Could it be because I might run into some wicked man, who’s had too much to drink and harbours nefarious intentions about what he wishes to do with me?”
She blinked up at him, which admittedly might have been the straw that broke him. It had certainly been calculated to do so. Even so, she was a little startled when he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.
“Henry!” she said, as loudly and as urgently as she dared. “Henry, put me down this instant!”
“Or what?”
“Or… I’ll scream, and then everyone will see, and you’ll be forced to marry me. Now there’s a fate worse than death,” she added, with extra sarcasm just to be certain his brandy-soaked brain understood she was mocking him.
“Needs avoiding at all costs,” he agreed, sounding quite amicable now as he strode downstairs.
Wait. Downstairs?
“Where are you taking me, you great oaf? I know men regress when they’ve been drinking, but there’s no need to return to your caveman origins. I value my hair and do not wish to be pulled about by it.”
His shoulder shook beneath her belly, and it took her a moment to realise he was laughing.
“Oh! I hate you. I don’t know what I ever saw in you. I plead temporary insanity, for I must have been out of my idiotic mind. No woman in their right mind would see you as husband material. You’re a pig-headed, irritating, stubborn, insufferable cretin and I wish I’d never met you!”
“Sticks and stones, Miss Knight,” he returned, sounding far too pleased with himself.
With some anxiety, Florence realised they had reached the entrance hall and Henry was making for the front door. She tugged at his coat, which was awkward to do while upside down.
Cool air drifted about her bare ankles, and she became rivetingly aware of the fact she was naked beneath her nightgown and Henry’s hand was resting on her calf to keep her steady as he strode… towards the lake.
“Henry, drat you. You’ve made your point. Put me down, will you?” she pleaded.
“What point is that?”
Florence frowned. She’d hoped if she seemed to agree with him, whatever bee he’d got into his bonnet would buzz off. Apparently not, for she had not the slightest idea what he was doing. She sighed, bouncing as he walked. Really, it was a most undignified mode of transportation and not to be recommended.
“Oh, I don’t know!” she wailed. “That you want me. That you don’t want me. That you want me to want you, but not want me in return. That you want me but don’t want to, or don’t want to marry me, at least. Who knows? I don’t know. Does anybody know? I wish they’d tell me. I wish you’d tell me. I fervently, truly wish I did know but I don’t, so why don’t you tell me?”
> “Very well,” he said, and she heard the brandy in his voice, the unmistakable thread of excitement and amusement fired by alcohol. She wondered which of them would regret this most in the morning. “I’ll tell you. You provoke me, Miss Knight. You are the most provoking female it has ever been my misfortune to come across. If it isn’t bad enough tripping over you whenever I turn my blasted head, you’re laying traps for me, lying in wait for me, provoking me on purpose.”
Well, she supposed she could hardly deny it. “And what do you hope to achieve by… by whatever this is?”
“To make myself feel better,” he said, before he dumped her unceremoniously in the lake.
To be fair, it was only a few feet deep, but the shock of the cold water, and that he’d done it at all, made Florence reel backwards in shock. Henry grabbed for her but too late and she fell backwards, submerged beneath the icy lake for a moment before strong hands grasped hold of her and hauled her out again. She came up, spluttering and gasping.
Henry’s expression was a combination of regret and a man trying very hard not to laugh. She gave him a hard shove, and he stumbled back a pace.
Florence pushed her dripping hair from her face and glared at him.
“F-Feel better now?” she demanded, teeth chattering.
But his expression had changed dramatically, all the laughter gone from his eyes. He was very still, except for the way his chest rose and fell, somewhat quicker than before. Florence frowned, not understanding for a moment why he was staring at her so intently. Heat surged through her like a tide, welcome after her dip in the frigid lake, and the inevitable result of realising Henry was staring at her as if he wanted to eat her in one bite. Her nightgown, a dreadfully expensive and fine cotton, was clinging to her body. Florence glanced down and realised it was transparent.
Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 9