by Sophia James
She did not finish.
‘I’d be in no position to...gossip?’
‘Exactly.’
That held him still. ‘With no feelings at all involved?’
‘Pardon?’
‘A kiss might take you places you’d find addictive, Florentia. You might indeed want more. Much more.’
His fingers ran across her cheek as he said this, light and airy, barely touching. The timbre of his voice was deep, almost hypnotising, and a feeling began to build inside her that was astonishing.
His eyes were pale in the slanting light, the clear green in them turned velvet limed and fine. And then his lips came down in a hard need, his arms gathering her in, close and then closer.
* * *
She tasted exactly as she had before, of sweetness and of virtue, but it had been so long since he had felt those particular things he was careful.
They were in a public space and he understood the danger of being observed. Yet still his hand crept up into the gold of her hair and he tilted his head to come in more deeply.
There was a rush of connection, the red-hot wash of it pounding through his veins, making him reel slightly as he tasted further. His fingers cupped one breast rising ripe against the thin cover of silk and her neck arched in response. So very easy to simply take.
He pulled away. For his own safety. For a sanity that he could not understand, rationality and sense twisted into question over a complete void of control.
She was looking at him in the same way as he was probably looking at her, in shock and unrest, amazement in her blue eyes and her full lips swollen. His thumb wiped away a single tear that fell from her right eye down on to the alabaster smoothness of her cheek.
‘Thank you.’ Her words, whispered. ‘I will always remember that.’
‘God, Florentia, you slay me.’
Steadying her, he stepped well away, as far as he could move from her in the narrowness of the cubicle. He had never once in all of his years been concerned enough to put a woman’s reputation above his own needs of the flesh. Women had thrown themselves at him, at this event and at that one. But they were always leavable, forgettable and interchangeable.
Until he had met Lady Florentia Hale-Burton with her cleverness and her honesty. He wanted to drag her beneath him and understand the lust he was consumed with, but he shook his head. Lust was the wrong word, but at that moment he did not wish to consider what might be the right one.
He could not do it wrong again. He could not hurt her or cause any hint of scandal. This time he must do what was exactly right for her because he had waited too long to rectify the harm he had once caused.
* * *
She felt him withdraw, saw the gleam in his eyes fade to some further-off place and the heartbeat at his throat settle.
Had the kiss been tepid to him, unenthusiastic, indifferent? After all of the women he was reputed to have been with, was her small offering laughable and pathetic?
She did not know the way of it. That was the trouble. She’d had no practice or tutorship in kissing.
The desperate need to be touched and taken consumed her, no consent in it save for a desire that made her feel beautiful beyond measure.
Her right breast still tingled with the feel of him, the out-of-bounds taboo so carefully disregarded. An ownership of the male domain. She could not imagine reaching out and touching him in the same way.
But, oh, how she wanted to.
And the most surprising thing of it all is she felt neither shame nor embarrassment in what he had discovered. She was tired of all the hiding and even here in a space so open she would have still allowed him exactly what he wanted to take.
But he had turned, his fingers trailing across the leather spines of a pile of old books on one of the tables, the edge of the scar on his neck so easily seen at the top of his neckcloth.
‘Does your father come to London at all, Florentia?’ His tone was measured.
‘Hardly ever.’
‘Your sister said he had been ill for a number of years. Was it since this?’ One hand gestured to his wound, the pale green of his eyes bruised with anger.
‘Yes.’ She did not keep the truth from him or try to soften it. Her father had returned home from the inn and within a matter of days he had gone to bed. He’d barely left Kent since.
‘And it was all a mistake. That was the hell of it. My cousin had bid me to bring his...lovebird up from London and I thought she was you.’
‘You thought I looked like a woman of the night?’
The first glimmer of humour crossed his face. ‘You were wearing a red dress and Tommy’s lady was supposed to have been, too. I had not had much practice with identifying women like that, though of course on reflection you could not have possibly been one.’
‘I am not sure whether I should be flattered or not by such a comparison.’
He smiled and began to speak again.
‘When I finally woke up after the debacle at the inn the only reason I didn’t up and die was because I wanted to say sorry to you. You had told me your name and who your father was.’
‘Yet you did not come to Albany?’
‘I was sick for a long time and largely penniless. I imagined the very sight of me again would send a young girl into hysterics and so I went to the Americas. When I returned I met your sister at a ball about a month after I got to London and then I received your agent’s letter about the portrait. I knew there was some connection between Rutherford and the Hale-Burton household and I needed to find out what it was.’
‘Why did you spread that rumour of Frederick Rutherford’s leaving?’
‘Because his disappearance made it safer for you.’
‘Safer?’
‘Acceptance in society is a nebulous thing. A word here and there in the right ear can do wonders and a quiet shift of understanding is often the result.’
‘The right ear?’
‘Mr Benjamin Heron was listening.’
‘Which is why the family sponsored me at their ball. I always wondered how you might have accomplished that.’
‘The Winterton family history is convoluted and dissolute. Sometimes such reckless disregard can be an advantage.’
‘An answer that allows me no clue at all to your methods.’
‘Heron did not kill my father. I think I told you once I thought he might have. My father did not commit suicide either.’
‘An accident, then? A terrible accident with its own secrets attached?’
‘You are too quick by half, Florentia. But then I always knew that.’
‘Did you, my lord?’
‘From the first time you came to my town house. I thought you unmatched.’
‘A dangerous realisation given I was a boy.’
‘I still think that.’
Such a confidence left a silence between them, stretching across surprise, and Florentia was about to talk again when she heard the sound of footsteps on the staircase. A moment later one of the men at the desk from downstairs came around the corner.
‘We had hoped to still find you here, Lord Winterton. One of our best customers, Lady Ecclesfield, who heard you were here, was most insistent to have a short word. By all accounts she was a friend of your grandmother’s.’
‘Of course.’ Winter’s reply sounded forced and the frown across his forehead deepened as he saw the man waiting to accompany him down. Tipping his head in a gesture of polite social discourse, he spoke quietly.
‘Thank you for your recommendations on the books on art history, Lady Florentia. I shall be certain to keep such titles in mind.’
‘My pleasure, Lord Winterton.’
When he took her hand he held it for a second longer than was appropriate. Florentia wished that he mig
ht never have let her go but a second later he was gone completely. Leaning back against a wall, she closed her eyes, taking in a good deep breath to steady herself. What had just happened? Had he felt what she had? Where did this leave them?
She did not dare go down just yet for she knew her cheeks would be flushed and her eyes glitter bright.
No man now would measure up again to this new knowledge of what was. All the suitors who had asked for dances in the past weeks faded into a grey oblivion against the crimson truth of James Waverley, Viscount Winterton. The hues around him were vibrant and rich, a violent boldness that left her gasping, the soft and sombre others cast into shadow by his light.
Closing the book before her, she repositioned her hat and tightened the loosened fastenings of her cloak. Once downstairs she looked around for Winterton, but there was no sign at all of him, the scene before her returned to a normal softness after the force and power of his parting.
Outside she smiled her thanks as a Warrenden servant helped her up into the waiting carriage and the horses moved on through the busy streets around Finsbury Square.
It was either over or just started, this game between her and Winter, and right now she had no idea at all which way the dice might fall.
* * *
Winter hailed a hackney cab and gave it his direction. He wanted to be away from Lackington’s and away from Florentia because he honestly did not know what he would do next should he see her. Fall on to his knees and make a public spectacle of himself or simply take her in his arms and kiss her to find again the magic and the grace? He did not want to do either until he understood what the cost of any troth might finally be to her.
Albany was two hours south and he knew that if he made a start now he could be there before nightfall. His own conveyance would not take long to ready and he could find lodging tonight in some inn near the Manor. And yet other considerations kept rushing in.
The Earl of Albany had been largely housebound since his daughter had been kidnapped six years ago and from what James had found out he was a nervous man, inclined to odd turns of behaviour.
Roy Warrenden was often in White’s in the early afternoon so Winter took the chance to find him, banging on the roof of his cab and changing the directions of his travel. He needed more information on the family and who better to give it than Maria’s husband himself?
‘I am very glad to see you here, Warrenden.’ Winter slid into the empty seat beside him, removing the sheets of today’s early edition of The Times as he did so.
‘Are you indeed? I thought you might have come before this, Winter?’
‘How so?’
‘You are as astute as any man I have ever met in my life and I have been hearing the rounds of your well-placed gossip about the artist Frederick Rutherford. Florentia also confided in us that you now knew of her charade?’
Ignoring this, James formed his own query.
‘How old was the brother? The one who died?’
Roy looked startled. ‘I am surprised your numerous sources did not tell you Bryson was Florentia’s twin. He died in her arms after mistiming a jump on his stallion. I think her heart was broken.’
‘Hell.’
A twin.
There was in all his reading a special closeness between twins. How bereft Florentia must have felt at the loss of hers for every time she had spoken of her brother he had felt the sadness.
‘Maria worries about her constantly, though I myself think she is far stronger than anyone imagines. To pull off the stunt of imitating Rutherford required nerves of steel and she did it well. Why are you now so intent upon protecting her?’
‘I will leave it to her to tell you that. What I do want to find out is if you think the father is up to a personal visit?’
‘From you?’ Now Roy sat bolt upright and lowered his voice markedly. ‘Lord, are you saying what I think you are...?’
When Winter did not answer he went on. ‘Albany is self-centred and inclined to enjoy poor health. I think like all the other members of the family he does not enjoy society and an accident in the north allowed him the chance to opt out altogether. Which he has.’
‘And the mother?’
‘She is easier to understand, though she is also browbeaten by a husband who refuses to get truly well. Maria and I do not see them often as a visit usually ends in my wife trying to cajole them back into the mainstream of life which, as you can gather, they do not take to kindly.’
‘And how does Florentia fit into all this?’
‘She supports them with the earnings she makes from her paintings, which will be sadly lessened now that Frederick Rutherford has disappeared to the Americas. I have tried to gift them money, but the Earl is too proud and too stubborn to accept it though Maria manages to get around some of that and slips help in now and again. Florentia has more recently had some offers of marriage presented which would alleviate all financial responsibility, but she has turned each and every one of them down.’
‘Are there any more on the table that she might accept?’
‘I don’t know, Winter. Certainly I have young men of good heart and family calling on me daily. Whether she is interested is another matter entirely, for she is most reticent to talk of her personal affairs. Perhaps there is someone for whom she already holds a tendre? Should I take it from this conversation that you may be interested in throwing your own name into the ring?’
‘Don’t let her say yes to anyone until I have spoken with her. I need to go down to Albany tomorrow.’
‘You could not speak with me now? I have taken over Albany’s duty of vetting suitors, after all.’
‘No. There is more to it than that.’
He could see the workings in Roy Warrenden’s eyes and knew the minute his old friend had understood the truth.
‘It was you? You were the one? The one who took Florentia? The bastard who changed all their lives?’
‘Yes.’
‘God.’ He ran a hand through his hair and breathed out heavily. ‘If I thought Florentia truly hated you for it, Winter, I’d want to run you through with the sharpest sword I own.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘My wife told me the other day that her sister has not understood her destiny yet or the fact that you are going to be part of it and Maria is seldom wrong about anything. But what if Albany himself kills you? He’d hate you enough to do it, I think.’
‘Then I’d be dead.’
Roy unexpectedly began to laugh. ‘He’s an academic, Winter. The heroics in the inn was his finest hour and I doubt such bravery will ever be repeated. Still, he keeps a loaded pistol in the drawer on the right side of his bed. If he reaches for it, I would duck.’
‘Thank you.’ Holding out his hand, he was glad when Roy took it.
Chapter Fourteen
Albany was a grand old manor perched on a hill and set back from the river which meandered before it, the banks resplendent with white arum lilies and tall blue flowers Winter did not know the name of. The family seat looked as if it were only just hanging on to the glorious earlier days by the fingernails, the cracks of time imprinted in the lines of the place. Like many of the old and titled names of the ton the Earl had obviously fallen upon hard times, and harder times still for his family, Winter imagined, with a lost entailment looming before them.
He’d stayed in the carriage until the village when he had asked for his horse to be brought around. With a light breeze and the promise of a warm day in the air he had enjoyed the exercise of riding. The worry of what this visit might bring also hung across him.
At the front door he was met by a slight older servant, his uniform too big for him. The fellow bowed as he took his hat and coat.
‘May I tell the Earl who has come to call, sir?’
‘I am Viscount Winter
ton.’ Even with the threat of what might happen Winter gave his true name. If the Earl chose to crucify him then that would be a punishment he would have to take, but he hoped he might talk the fellow into an acceptance of all that had happened.
‘Very well, my lord, but the Earl is upstairs in his chamber and so it might take a little while to rouse him. If you would like to go into the library, perhaps, there is wine there and I will have the cook bring you some sustenance after your journey.’
‘Thank you.’
He proceeded to follow the man a little way down the corridor. Standing in the middle of the empty room as the servant hurried off once again, Winter saw many of the things that Florentia had never told him. Her father kept a library that would have been the envy of every thinking man in Europe and the paintings on the wall were like no others he had ever seen.
He corrected himself. The portrait hanging now above his desk in St James’s Square held the same freedom of lines and boldness of colour. Florentia’s work. He walked over to the nearest canvas that presumably depicted her parents. They were both slight and lost looking. The wife had her hands firmly fixed in the husband’s and on her breast was embroidered a picture of a boy.
Bryson? There was a startling likeness in his features to that of Frederick Rutherford. No wonder she played the part so well, he thought to himself. She was emulating a dear and lost twin. The poignancy of that thought made him swallow.
‘The Earl will see you now, my lord, in his suite of rooms. I shall take you up.’
The runners were threadbare and there were several spindles missing from the grand staircase, but a frieze had been carefully painted all the way up on the handrail, one of flowers and plants and entwined leaves, the same arum lilies and blue blooms in the design that he had seen by the river.
The curtains were drawn as he stepped within the bedchamber, so for just a moment he did not see the man sitting in a leather chair by a fire that was blazing even in the considerable warmth of the morning.
‘Lord Winterton?’ The voice was steady and pleasant. ‘Thank you, Murphy. I will see to our visitor now.’