To her surprise, his shirt clung damply to his skin.
"
Florence
," he groaned. "You don't know what you're doing."
But then he kissed her even harder, as if his life depended on the total plunder of her mouth. His fingers tightened on her neck, sliding under Aunt Hypatia's pearls. When his father's signet pressed her skin, the metal was fever-warm. His scent surrounded her, not merely cologne but a subtle, animal smell. He
began to push his hips against hers, slowly but with force, rubbing up and down the very center of her heat. That heat seemed to double as she realized his manly organ was not soft. Rather, it was thick and thrusting and hard, like a creature that needs to mate.
Abruptly panicked, she struggled to get away, but he only held her tighter. He was groaning her name now, grinding her with his hardness. His body seemed beyond his own control.
Florence
could not wait for him to control it; could not stop to think. She did what she'd heard the
village lads joke about. She reached around his legs and gave his parts a forceful squeeze. Apparently, she'd done it right. Swallowing a yelp, Edward shoved back as if she'd stabbed him. The blackness of
his glare was enough to make her quail. Burning fingers pressed to her mouth, she struggled to sit upright.
"I'm sorry," she said, barely able to get it out. "Did I hurt you?"
"Did you—? Good Lord!" He raked his hair with both hands, then dropped his head back and breathed: long, slow breaths that lifted his belly and chest. The place she'd pinched was still humped between his legs, a rise of black cloth that pulsed like a living heart. Seeing it, she went hot again and knew she'd lost her mind. Surely she couldn't regret calling a halt to his affront!
As if he sensed her stare, Edward opened his eyes. Unlike her, he seemed to have regained his calm.
"You did precisely as you should," he said. "It is I who must beg forgiveness. I drank more champagne than I ought tonight, and took advantage of your inexperience. It was utterly despicable and I promise it shall never happen again."
He was saying he'd only kissed her because he was drunk. The confession should have comforted but it didn't. She wound her hands together in her lap. "What you did wasn't completely terrible."
He
laughed,
the sound harsh. "I'm glad it wasn't terrible, but it was wrong. You mustn't let other men
get you alone where they can try it."
"I'm not so green I don't know that," she snapped, with a salutary hint of anger. "It's just you're, well, you're supposed to be my cousin!"
"Quite." He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair again, causing it to stand up rather comically.
He was right to worry about his wavy locks. They could turn wild. But he didn't seem to notice. He nodded towards the path. "Perhaps you should go. I wouldn't want anyone to miss you."
She knew he was right. She stood and smoothed her skirts, perversely reluctant to leave. "Are you
sure you're well?"
"Yes," he said sternly. "Now go."
She trudged two steps and turned back.
"Your hair."
He furrowed his brows at her.
"It's sticking up. You need to smooth it."
"I shall," he assured her. And then she had no more excuses to stay.
* * *
As soon as
she'd gone, Edward sagged over his knees. How could he have been so irresponsible?
Anyone might have walked in on them.
Florence
would have been ruined, not to mention his plans for saving Freddie. Edward couldn't imagine what had come over him.
All his life he'd known the value of discipline.
Even before his parents died and left him alone to care for Freddie, he'd been the master of
his passions. Edward didn't cry when he was scolded, or skinned his knees, or was shunned by his schoolmates because he refused to bully the boys in the lower forms. Edward was a Greystowe, an English earl. Edward set his course and followed it.
He certainly didn't drive a vicar's daughter to pinch his balls.
"Damnation," he said, and wished he knew just what he cursed.
With a long, low sigh, he pushed to his feet. He tidied his hair as well as he could and marveled at
Florence
's consideration in giving him the warning. What she must think of him, he couldn't guess—
nor could he afford to lament the loss of her good opinion.
If she stayed away from him, all the better.
Clearly, he could not be trusted to keep his vows.
* * *
Imogene Hargreave cornered
him halfway down the corridor to the ballroom. He had no chance to
avoid her. Apart from the distant hum of merriment, and a marble cherub with a mass of roses in its arms, they were alone.
"There you are," she cooed,
tiptoeing
her fingers up his chest. "Charles is staying at his club tonight.
I thought you might whirl me around the floor."
He caught her hand and held it away. Her hair gleamed like flax in the flickering gaslight, her skin like ivory. She was as seductive as ever, as beautiful and as skilled, but she moved him no more than a
statue.
"I'm on my way out."
"Are you?" Imogene chuckled. "I'll admit the Vances' parties are a bit tame, but your aunt and her little charge seem to be enjoying themselves.
Quite the sensation, that one.
You'd better take care or you'll have more than a cousin on your hands. Your brother is acting smitten."
Edward stiffened at her tone. "Florence Fairleigh is a perfectly respectable young woman. If my brother chooses to pursue her, the duchess and I would hardly disapprove."
Imogene's eyes widened. "Well, of course. I'm sure she's everything that's agreeable."
"She is," Edward insisted.
Imogene cocked her head,
then
shook off her puzzlement. She stroked his arm. "Come,
darling,
let's
not talk about your relatives. Let me give you a ride home." Her brows rose suggestively.
"To my home, if you like."
Edward hesitated. He had no doubt Imogene intended the journey to end in her bed, a place he'd
vowed not to visit again. On the other hand, if he took the carriage he came in, he'd have to send it back for Hypatia, Going with Imogene would save the coachman an extra trip. Besides which, he'd put off talking to her longer than he should.
"I'll be going to my home," he said, "but if the offer stands, I'd be happy for it."
"Of course it stands," said Imogene, playfully swatting his shoulder.
As he'd suspected, she was planning to change his mind. The carriage hadn't left the Vances' drive
before she'd slid over to his seat and pulled the shades. The lantern that swayed from the hook above
the door made a glowing nest of the interior. The coach's upholstery was blue, a sleek, pale satin that echoed Imogene's eyes.
"There," she said, giving him a deep, practiced kiss. "This is more like it."
He did not stop her. He was waiting—hoping, he suspected—to see if her kiss could do to him what
Florence
's had. But the truth was as he'd feared. The memory of
Florence
's touch, innocent as it was, was more exciting than the reality of Imogene's. That pleasure had been fresher, sharper—more right, God help him. Kissing Imogene was wrong in ways he hadn't the courage to examine. After a moment,
he eased back. "We need to talk."
"Oh, dear," she said with a high, brittle laugh. "I'm sure I don't like the sound of that."
He covered her hand where it lay soft and
supple
on her thigh. "You know I admire you, Imogene. You're one of the most beautiful, vibrant women I've ever known. You imagine how grateful I am for
the time you've given me."
"Edward." She pulled her hand away, a flush staining
her
cheeks. "I don't want your gratitude. Why
are you doing this? We're good together. The passion we share is special."
Edward watched her hand where it clutched her satin skirts. There was no way to say this without
hurting her, but
<
>
perhaps that was best. Perhaps the gentlemanly thing would be to let her hate him.
"It doesn't feel special to
She shook her head as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "My aunt was right about you.
You are a cold-hearted bastard. Just like all the Greystowes.
Unless there's another woman?"
She narrowed her smoky eyes. "Tell me it's not Millicent Parminster.
That two-faced bitch.
I'll rip her
bloody hair out."
"It's no one," he said, wondering when he'd met her aunt. "I just can't do this anymore."
She snorted. "I'll believe you can't do it when someone tells me your stones have fallen off."
"It's over, Imogene," he said. "I'm tired of feeling dirty."
He was sorry he'd said it the instant it left his mouth. Her lips moved to repeat his final word. Then
she covered them with her hands. "It's your cousin, isn't it? The blushing
miss
who's been batting her eyes at your brother. She's a clean one, all right. Clean enough to squeak!"
"It's no one," he repeated, the denial a threatening growl.
Imogene wasn't fooled. "Bloody hell," she
laughed,
the sound like glass. "The mighty Edward
Burbrooke has fallen for his brother's country mouse!"
He caught her arm. "You breathe that to a soul and I'll see you ruined."
In that moment, he meant the threat, unfair as it was. Fortunately, Imogene seemed to believe him.
"Oh, I won't repeat it," she sneered. "That timorous twit is going to dish out all the revenge I need.
I hope you stew without me, Edward. I hope you spend your whole bloody life dreaming of a woman
you
can't have."
Then she rapped the roof with her fan, ordering the coachman to set him down by the side of the road. He was miles from home, but Edward didn't protest. He knew the walk would not be as bad as the memory of her curse.
CHAPTER 5
The picnic was
Freddie's idea. A reward, he said, for
Florence
's having braved three balls in one week—not to mention a presentation to the queen. Curtseying to the monarch had been by far the
easier ordeal, despite having to practice walking backward in a train. Not the least bit terrifying, Queen
Florence
of the plump, kindly widows back in Keswick. All the same, she was grateful the business was over.
Momentarily free of obligations, they spread their blanket across the grass in Aunt Hypatia's town house garden, a small stretch of ground enclosed by a tall brick wall. A sundial shaded Freddie's shoulder and
a picturesque urn spilled ivy down a pedestal of stone.
Florence
's relaxation had as much to do with Freddie's presence, and the lack of anyone else's, as it did with the glass of currant wine he'd pressed
into her hand. At peace for the first time since Edward had taken leave of his senses at the Vances' ball, she sat in the circle of her dark chintz skirts—housecleaning clothes from Keswick—and watched Freddie pick idly at the remains of their cold repast
He lay sprawled on his belly, his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Florence
knew she could stare at him for hours. His profile was that of a Greek coin; his physique, a young athlete's. More than either of these things, however, his visible good nature drew her eye. He had, she thought, the most agreeable face she'd ever seen. He'd been quiet today. More than once, she'd caught him gazing at her in a deeply considering manner. He didn't appear to be smitten.
Fond, yes, but not smitten.
Spiteful or not, the Wainwrights' friend seemed to have been correct. But that was fine with
Florence
. She hadn't the least desire to threaten Freddie's heart.