by Jane Ashford
She looked away. Robert eyed her appreciatively. Those phrases had sounded as if she’d wrenched them from reluctant depths. Still, an interesting development. Flora rubbed her arms. He could see gooseflesh on her skin. “You are cold,” he said.
“Very well! You were right. I’m cold. I’ll go in.” She whirled in a flurry of pale skirts.
Her left foot encountered Plato, who had somehow made his way directly into her path. Flora jerked sideways to avoid kicking him. Plato moved with her. She tripped and threw out her arms as she started to fall. Without thinking, Robert stepped forward and scooped her up.
Time ground to a breathless halt.
He held her against his chest, in a froth of petticoats. Heat spread through him from every spot they touched. Robert could feel the curve of her breast and the lovely roundness of her thigh through the muslin. The many words they’d thrown at each other over these last months evaporated. Their eyes met, two variations of intense blue. Her lips, just slightly parted, seemed to call him, as if they were meant by nature to be his. He would scarcely have to move to sink into a kiss—a kiss he’d wanted for quite some time.
Flora’s breath caught. Her right hand gripped the collar of his coat. She leaned across the last few inches to meet him, and then those lips were his.
The kiss was every bit as riveting as he’d imagined it would be. The soft sound she made set him afire. His arms tightened around her. Indeed, every bit of him tightened as desire flashed through his veins.
Flora felt as if she was melting. Here, at last, was a kiss, she thought. This tender, urgent caress that sent heady demands shooting through her whole body. She’d known there must be more to kissing than the mechanical pressing together of lips, which was all she’d experienced when she’d allowed one of her father’s students to kiss her. Purely in a spirit of experimentation. This was to that as a mud puddle was to a seething volcano. This was…bliss.
She’d come to Salbridge for this, Flora realized as the kiss deepened. She’d been wanting it, and resisting the longing, for months. When Lord Robert had gone away, and it seemed as if she might not see him again, subterranean desires had pushed her to travel, to discover this searing moment.
She laced her hands behind his neck and pressed closer, giving herself up to the embrace. She didn’t want it to end, ever.
There was a curious sound, like the harrumph of a grumpy old man clearing his throat. One of her father’s oldest friends, in every sense of that adjective, had grumbled just that way when one of his pet theories was questioned. But he couldn’t be here. Actually, he was dead.
Robert stopped kissing her. Flora tugged him close again. Then she heard footsteps.
Before either of them could move more than a few inches apart, a figure in an elegant blue pelisse rounded a clump of evergreens, stopped short, and gaped. “Whatever are you doing?” exclaimed Lady Victoria Moreton.
Robert’s body cried out in frustration. Desire stronger than he’d ever felt before fought his innate good breeding. The conflict held him immobile for several tumultuous heartbeats. Then he set Flora carefully on the gravel. She wobbled briefly, then stepped back. “Miss Jennings tripped,” he said. “I was assisting her.”
“Assisting? Is that what you call it?”
Robert had never heard Victoria screech like that. He thought of her as a sweet child, his friend’s little sister. It had been amusing to see her grow into a young lady surrounded by a crowd of society’s young sprigs.
“This is why you did not go out shooting today?” she asked.
She sounded like a judge accusing a criminal.
“So you could sneak out with her?” she added, glaring at Flora. “You told me you’d meet me. Last night, in the drawing room, you said we’d go for a walk together!”
Robert supposed he might have done so. One talked idly of such things. He was sure he’d made no specific appointment.
“And now, instead, I find you with this…hoyden. Showing her petticoats, outside without so much as a shawl.”
“Victoria!”
“Pretending to trip, I daresay, so that you would have to—”
“Victoria,” Robert repeated. “Stop this at once.”
She responded as the child she still was, fixing him with wide brown eyes.
“Miss Jennings tripped, and I kept her from falling. That is all there is to this.” He avoided Flora’s gaze. Protecting her was more important than strict honesty just now.
“You may think so,” responded the daughter of the house.
He wouldn’t have thought she could sneer like that. She’d always been such a gentle little thing.
“But why was she out here, half naked, tripping?”
“Naked!” exclaimed Flora.
“Nothing of the kind.” Robert shot Flora a glance, asking her to leave this to him.
“She was lying in wait for you,” Victoria insisted. “Olivia says men hardly ever notice such snares until they are trapped into marriage.”
“Well, Olivia, whoever she is, is an idiot,” said Flora. “As is anyone who would believe such nonsense.”
Victoria looked shocked. Robert sighed. There were ways to avoid social embarrassment. Best was to laugh off the incident, make people feel they were faintly ridiculous for bringing it up. Next was to appear bored, as if the topic was just too tedious. Nobody wanted to be thought dull. Arguing was not advisable.
“Are you calling me an—?”
“Really,” said Robert before Victoria could complete this doom-filled sentence, “we are making a mountain of a molehill. Miss Jennings is eager to get back to the house. If you want a walk, Victoria, I am at your service.” He offered his arm.
His friend’s little sister hesitated, then marched over and took it. Her possessive grip confirmed his concerns, as did the glare she aimed on Flora. He’d known Victoria since she was in pigtails, however. He was practically an uncle to her. He would deal with this complication.
Flora turned and walked away without another word.
“What is that?” Victoria asked.
He followed her gaze. “Oh, that’s Plato. My dog.”
“Yours? Why do you have a dog like…that?”
“He has many special qualities.”
Victoria examined the little animal. “He’s quite odd-looking,” she said finally. “Why does he stare so?”
“I believe he has a deep interest in human foibles.”
Victoria frowned at him. Flora would have laughed, Robert thought. Or thrown back some caustic, but exhilarating comment.
“Are you trying to set a new fashion?” the girl asked.
Robert choked off a laugh. It was a perfectly understandable inquiry. People did far odder things in order to make a splash. He had a sudden vision of a troop of young fashionables scouring the streets of London for mongrels. Flora would have enjoyed that picture as well.
“Is something wrong?”
Robert shook his head, and they set off on what he feared would feel like a very long walk. He would have to make certain it was not lengthy in actuality.
Five
As the guests at Salbridge Great Hall waited to go in to dinner once again, Flora stood off to the side, observing, her mind drifting back to the morning, to the garden.
Sir Liam Malloy strolled over to join her. “Good evening, Miss Jennings. Have you had a good day?”
A silent narrative flashed through Flora’s mind. I kissed Lord Robert Gresham. Passionately. And enjoyed it very, very much. I was caught in his arms by Lady Victoria, who considers him hers by right, and made an enemy. Flora knew a declaration of vendetta when she saw one—and she had, in the girl’s no-longer-soft brown eyes. I almost called my hosts’ daughter an idiot, her inner voice continued. Actually, there was no almost about it. As Lady Victoria was well aware. Flora didn’t care; she wouldn’t
have missed that kiss for anything. But Sir Liam was waiting for an answer. “Some of us walked into the village in the afternoon,” she said aloud. “How was the shooting?”
“Splendid.”
“Oh, good.”
There was a stir near the door. Looking sour, the butler moved out of the opening and announced, “Mrs. Lydia Fotheringay and Mr. Anthony Durand.”
There was a general murmur as an older couple entered. The lady looked perhaps forty-five. She was quite thin, which made her luminous hazel eyes seem larger. Richly dressed in garnet satin, she had a pointed chin and beautifully dressed brown hair, glinting with gems. She moved forward with languid grace.
Not as gracefully as her companion, however. Anthony Durand came into the room like a great predatory cat. Though not particularly tall, he was well muscled for a man in his fifties. He had craggy features, a swarthy complexion, and hair and eyes as black as midnight. His evening dress was impeccable.
They nodded to the group like sovereigns greeting their subjects. The earl and countess moved forward to receive them without visible enthusiasm.
“I wouldn’t have expected to see them at this gathering,” said Sir Liam.
“You know them?” asked Flora, through lips that felt stiff.
“Only, er, gossip,” he replied. “I wouldn’t befriend them if I were you.”
As if Flora didn’t know. Lydia Fotheringay had treated Flora’s mother shamefully; she’d heard about it all her life. And she knew Anthony Durand’s name. A powerful man with a very bad reputation, he’d been a close friend of the late, unlamented Lord Royalton.
Flora suppressed a shudder of revulsion. She hadn’t thought of Royalton’s murder, or her inadvertent involvement in it, for weeks. She hadn’t meant to get him killed, even if he richly deserved it! To keep from thinking about it, she’d used a method her father had taught her to help remember complicated linguistic forms. He’d had her imagine her mind as a chamber lined with cupboards and drawers. Each particular piece of knowledge could be placed in its own compartment, where she could find it whenever she pleased. It worked remarkably well.
And so she’d taken her nightmares about being tied up and shut away in the dark and shoved them into one of the far cupboards, securing it with rows of mental locks. She didn’t know what Papa would have thought of that use of his system, but it had succeeded. Until now.
Here was another part of the reason she’d come here, Flora saw then. She’d wanted a break from her previous life. The chance to be away from London—far from any connection to events that had happened in the past and were all too often revisited in her dreams—had appealed.
Flora turned away from the sight of Anthony Durand, hardly aware of Sir Liam by her side. She noticed that Lord Robert was looking at her, too. That wouldn’t do.
Durand moved through the crowd. People simply got out of his way. Flora’s heart beat a little faster. But he wouldn’t speak to her. They hadn’t been introduced. Social conventions had their uses after all.
Lydia Fotheringay was monitoring the man’s progress with little darting glances, perhaps thinking she was being subtle. Harriet had said the woman had the brains of a pebble and the heart of a rabid stoat. The Duchess of Langford had added that she had the morals of a Covent Garden abbess. That had been quite a moment, Flora remembered, one of those conversations that turned your preconceptions on their heads.
The countess gave the signal to go in to dinner. A woman nearby took Sir Liam’s arm. He looked as if he would much rather have escorted Flora to the dining room.
People moved toward the door. Flora couldn’t seem to follow. She told herself to walk, but her body refused to take a step nearer to Anthony Durand.
From across the room, Robert could see that the new arrivals had distressed Flora. Lovers who scarcely bothered to hide the fact, they weren’t the sort of people he’d have expected the Salbridges to invite, particularly to a party arranged for their daughter.
Flora was starting to draw glances, standing alone as the others moved to the dining room. He went over and drew her arm through his. She was trembling. What could be the matter?
Robert made himself into a shield, returning curious looks with bland discouragement. Or not so bland, if necessary. Silently, he got Flora moving. He escorted her down the corridor and guided her to her place at the table. Her chair was far from the newcomers, he was glad to see. She was seated between two young men who wouldn’t notice a mood unless it had a tail like a fox.
He looked down. Flora smiled at him. It was the sweetest smile he’d ever seen on her face, and it went straight to his heart.
* * *
“I’m astonished to see her here,” said Harriet Runyon. Flora sat beside her in the drawing room, watching Lydia Fotheringay talk to one of the countess’s older friends. “I cannot believe Anne invited her.”
“I don’t think she did,” said Flora. She told Harriet about the conversation she’d overheard between their hosts.
“Well! It’s never clear whether Lydia is shameless, or simply too stupid to realize she’s being outrageous.”
Across the room, Mrs. Fotheringay’s companion looked startled, then laughed.
“Talking scandal, no doubt,” Harriet added. “Lydia has no other interests.” She sighed. “I’m very sorry she’s here, but we don’t have to take any particular notice of her.”
Flora nodded. She’d recovered her balance during dinner. For once, she was glad it went on so long.
“You should avoid the man she came with,” Harriet continued. “He is…rather notorious.”
Flora would be only too glad to do that.
A few minutes later, the gentlemen began to stroll in. Durand looked like a raven among crows, Flora thought. Nearly the same, but in fact larger and more dangerous than his fellows. He joined a group of older men setting up a card game at the far end of the large room.
Lord Robert appeared in the doorway—handsome, utterly assured—and surveyed the scene. Flora could still feel the echoes of his touch. Here was a limitation of social conventions. She couldn’t rush across the room and repeat that kiss. The idea did make her smile, however. What gasps and fluttering that would cause!
Lord Robert walked over to Lady Victoria and spoke to her. Her answering smile was brilliant. She took his arm as if it belonged to her, and they moved over to the pianoforte in the corner of the large room. Lady Victoria sat down and opened it. Robert leaned against the instrument.
The younger woman started to play. “Naturally she’s quite good,” Flora muttered. “She would be.”
“What?” Harriet turned to her.
“Nothing.” Flora had never learned the pretty accomplishments of a noble lady. If the group wanted a lecture on the intricacies of declension and inflection rather than a song or a sonata, well, she had that at her fingertips.
“I wonder why Robert is flirting with Victoria,” Harriet said.
Mr. Trevellyn and two other young men had gravitated to the pianoforte. The corner was getting crowded. “That’s the question,” said Flora.
“I also wonder why you’re muttering.”
“Do you?”
“Are we reduced to oblique remarks and grim hints?” replied Harriet with some asperity. “Do I try to guess what you mean while you glower and mumble darkly?”
Flora was startled into a laugh.
“Because, really, I find that sort of thing so tedious,” Harriet continued. “It is why I rarely converse with ‘sensitive’ young gentlemen. And it is not at all like you.”
It wasn’t, Flora acknowledged. So far, this visit had felt more like being tossed hither and yon by a storm at sea than a reasoned reconnaissance mission into the haut ton.
Lady Victoria moved on to a tender ballad. She sang well, too. She probably excelled at everything she was supposed to do, and did nothing that she
wasn’t, Flora thought. But that was just spiteful. She wasn’t spiteful. A sensation that might have been exasperation, or heartache, assailed her. She’d never seen Lord Robert flirting with anyone else, she realized. His attentions had been all for her.
She didn’t like it.
Was she right, after all, about the shallowness of society? Could he kiss her so meltingly and then forget all about it?
“Flora?” said Harriet. “You’re looking tragic again.”
Flora turned to face her. Harriet had treated her with great generosity. Flora owed her a good deal and didn’t want to let her down. But she had to be honest. “I don’t think I can be anyone but myself,” Flora said. “I’ve tried, but I’m failing miserably.”
“Well, stop it at once,” came the tart reply.
Flora blinked.
“Is that why you’ve been hanging back and moping?” Harriet added.
“I haven’t been moping!”
The older woman frowned at her. “You’ve been thinking that you had to be…what? A simpering, wide-eyed miss? A sweet little doormat?”
“Well, I…not quite that, but—”
“Like me?”
“You’ve never been anything like that!”
Harriet waited, gazing at her.
“Not at all,” Flora said slowly.
“You are so intelligent, Flora, so exact and analytical. I assumed you would see more clearly than that.”
It was too kind to be a reprimand, but Flora felt foolish anyway.
“Let me assure you, then. You can be yourself. You must, really. It’s the only viable choice.”
That was a relief. “But things are getting into a tangle,” Flora said.
“They tend to, at house parties. I’ve never been to one that wasn’t seething with undercurrents. Sniping and overindulging and bedroom doors stealthily opening and shutting in the night.”
“Doors. So that they can—?”
“Carry on their love affairs. Yes, Flora. You are not seventeen. Now, what is your tangle?” Harriet cocked her head, waiting for an explanation.