She looked young and fragile, her skin translucent against the deep pearl collar that encircled her slender neck. She had a heart-stopping loveliness still and Oliver marvelled at her continuing devotion to him.
‘From the moment I saw you, Florence,’ he said, not taking his eyes from hers, ‘I have loved you. I had one affair when you were taken away to London and that affair resulted in Edward, and I cannot regret it. There was another, and recently, but she was of no consequence. It was brief and loveless and it resulted in nothing but a revelation of the truth, that each of us was looking for something the other could not provide.’
He felt a shudder go through Florence’s hands and he held them still. ‘When your grandfather spoke to me all those years ago I was astounded. I had already made little approaches to you, to see if you still cared for me. When Sir Philip told me that I had his approval I could not believe my ears. After the years of waiting; after the years of hoping … you were to be mine for the asking.’
He pulled her close and put his lips to her cheek. ‘What a fool I would have been not to take you before you or your family changed your minds.’
She relaxed against him and he could feel in her chest the jerkiness of the tears that were so near the surface. ‘I never wanted Suttonford,’ he continued, ‘I never even liked the place. I wanted you. All I ever wanted, all I still want, is to have a proper home; a home I can return to at night and find everyone waiting for me. My wife – you, Florence – happy to see me. I want to see my children – little Maud glad that Papa is home.’
‘I only ever wanted the ordinary precious things that the poorest people take for granted. And I have never had it. Never. Not in my childhood, nor with all my money.’
Her tears were coming now, falling onto his shoulder, rolling down his chest as he held her sobbing, shaking body close to his. He spoke gently. ‘Now at last I think there is a chance that we may achieve it.’
She was still, listening.
‘Now tell me, Florence. What were your dreams?’
She buried her wet face in his neck and told him in a small, choking voice. ‘They were ordinary, romantic dreams.’
‘I used to lie in bed at night and imagine you wanting me. I saw myself as desirable, romantic. I wanted you to tell me you loved me. I wanted us to go beyond passion. I wanted us to be as one. I wanted to be needed, I suppose. And I never got beyond the wanting.’
‘Did you want me to ravish you, Florence?’ he asked and he could not keep himself from smiling as he held her at arm’s length and studied her lovely, frightened face.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I still want you to.’
‘Can I convince you that it’s you I want?’ he said.
‘I want you back,’ she said. ‘I want you back in my bed and in my arms. I think I could learn to be a proper wife to you.’
‘You are a proper wife,’ he told her. ‘I want no other.’
‘Can you teach me to be your mistress as well?’ she asked timidly. ‘You have always been so restrained with me.’
‘I? Restrained?’ He could not help but smile at her words. ‘If I was restrained then it was because I was afraid of hurting you – afraid you would be repelled by me.’
It was her turn to smile. ‘You never gave me a chance to be anything other than I was,’ she said.
Now he saw in her eyes a look that he had always longed to see there and as he put his arms around her and answered that look with his mouth upon hers, and felt in her response her need of him, he knew with a quickening sense of desire that a new beginning for them both lay ahead. She wanted to give herself to him and in her arms he would find the joy she had withheld from him so long.
Distantly they heard a clock striking the hour, summoning them to join the family at its first gathering.
Oliver disentangled himself from her. ‘We’ll keep that for later, Mrs Wainwright,’ he said softly. ‘Tonight our family is waiting for us, in its first proper home. Come!’
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Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
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Copyright © Audrey Reimann 1990
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Audrey Reimann has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in 1990 as The Moses Child by Corgi,
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
This edition published in 2017 by Ebury Press
www.penguin.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781785034893
The Runaway Page 48