The terrible doubt inside him eased. He knew Freddie was telling the truth and yet, as grateful as he was, he didn't want to hear this; didn't want to know there had been others besides the footman, besides the boys at school. He looked down at the empty chair, at the drying liquor stain on its seat. "Aunt Hypatia and I have decided we need to go to Greystowe: you, me, the duchess, and
Florence
."
"
Florence
?" Freddie's brow lifted in astonishment, "Edward. You can't mean to go through with this engagement.
Florence
is bound to hear."
"That's why we're going to Greystowe."
"For the rest of our natural lives?"
Edward stooped to retrieve the fallen glass.
"Just for the summer.
Memories are short. The next
scandal will push this one from people's minds."
"And if it doesn't? Good Lord, Edward, think of
Florence
. It's hardly fair to—"
"Why not?
You're the same man who proposed to her. The same man she clung to with joy. The same man who'll keep a roof over her head and a meal on her plate."
"There's more to life than roofs and meals."
"You are more than a meal to her, Freddie. You're her friend." Edward knew he spoke the truth, just
as he knew this was the way things had to be, for all their sakes. Maybe
Florence
did deserve to marry more than a friend. Maybe she deserved the world. That didn't mean she wouldn't be perfectly content
as Freddie's wife. And Freddie would be content as
Florence
's husband: content and safe. In this sorry
old world, who had the right to ask more than that? Throat tight, Edward opened the decanter and poured. Freddie watched wide-eyed as his brother tossed back the drink. The fine Irish whiskey hit his belly like a punch. He coughed before he spoke. "I'm telling Lewis we leave tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," he rasped, and prayed the decision would not destroy them all.
* * *
Florence
was exiting
the library with a book when the senior footman informed her that her cousins
were in the drawing room.
"My cousins?"
"Lord Greystowe and Viscount Burbrooke."
"Of course," she said, nervously smoothing her skirts. "Thank you, John. I'll go right up."
She wondered what they wanted, as it was past the hour for calls.
Business involving the engagement, perhaps?
But it seemed unlikely they would discuss that without the duchess, and she was spending the evening with friends.
"Gentlemen," she said, striving to present a calm exterior as she entered the elegant room.
The men rose and bowed. To her consternation, both wore matching sober faces. Indeed,
Florence
had never seen Freddie so serious. Heavens, she thought, her heart giving the oddest leap. They must
be calling off the betrothal,
"Is something wrong?" she said aloud, her hand pressed to her throat. "Aunt Hypatia hasn't met with misfortune, has she?"
"No, no," said Edward. His smile seemed
forced
even for him. "Freddie here"—he slung his arm around his brother's shoulder—"has a surprise for you."
Freddie looked a bit green around the gills but he nodded in agreement.
"Thought you might fancy a trip to Greystowe.
See my boyhood haunts and all."
Florence
blinked at him,
then
broke into a grin. "I'd love to, Freddie. Absolutely love to." She skipped across the room to squeeze his hands. "How did you know I'd been longing for the country?"
"You don't have to go," he said.
"Only if you really want to."
There was something in his eyes she didn't understand, some inexplicable discomfort, as if he were making this offer under duress. Edward cleared his throat.
"What's the matter?" she asked, her hands slipping to Freddie's lapels. "Don't
you
want to go?"
" 'Course
I want to go.
Just thought you might regret missing the rest of the Season."
Florence
had to laugh at that. "I'd pay to miss the rest of the Season. But are you well, Freddie? You
look pale."
"Drank too much at my club," he confessed, pulling away and giving his coat a tug. "Think I'd better
see if Aunt Hypatia's footman has a cure."
With that, he hastened from the drawing room as if he were being chased.
Florence
stared after him. "How peculiar," she said. "It's not like Freddie to overindulge."
"I imagine his friends wanted to toast his engagement." The explanation rang false, but she shrugged the mystery off. No doubt Edward was hoping to keep some prank from
Florence
's ears. She could not worry about it now. Freddie's abrupt departure had left the two of them alone. As always, Edward's presence, and all the unsettling feelings it inspired, was quite enough to occupy her mind.
"Shall I ring for refreshment?" she asked even as she hoped he would refuse.
"No," he said, and turned his black silk hat between his hands. She thought he'd make his excuses then, but he remained where he was, as if rooted to the Axminster carpet.
"Brandy?" she offered.
Again he shook his head,
then
seemed to gather his will. "You are happy, aren't you?"
The question was more accusatory than concerned, and more personal than he had any right to ask.
Her temper rose. "Of course I'm happy. Why wouldn't I be? Freddie is a wonderful man.
A true gentleman."
Edward flushed at her barb,
then
tightened his jaw. "Glad to hear it," he said in a patently scornful
drawl. "I'd always hoped my brother's wife would appreciate the noble virtues."
"More than you can," she said, and matched him glare for glare.
She didn't know when they'd drawn so close but they were nose to nose now, each vibrating with fury. His scent threatened to seep into her skin, musk and salt, heating her blood against her will. Damn him, she thought, for being so blasted masculine.
"If you hurt him ..." he warned.
"I?
I hurt him? You're the one who—" But she snapped her mouth shut on the rest. A real lady would pretend their encounter in the Vances' conservatory had never happened.
Not that Edward would let her be a lady. "No, no," he urged. "Finish what you were saying.
I'm the
one who what?"
She drew herself up and turned her face away. "It could not be of less importance."
"Oh, it couldn't, could it?"
When he gripped her jaw and forced it back, she felt as if she'd been waiting all night for him to do this very thing. Her body thrummed with excitement even as her heart sped up with fear. Her lungs were working like a bellows.
"
Florence
," he growled, his nostrils flaring as if
he
, too, could scent her secret flesh. His mouth crashed over hers, all searing male power. He invaded her, drew on her, his hand like iron around her jaw. He kissed her until her knees began to wobble, until her hands fluttered to grab his coat.
He kissed her until she whimpered, until every shred of rational thought escaped her brain. The sinews
of his neck were damp beneath her palm, his breathing ragged on her cheek. He pulled her up against him, his hold crushing her dress, his thighs hard and hot through the fragile cloth. With one forearm banded beneath her buttocks, his hips began to rock like that night at the ball. The ridge between them was extravagantly large. He seemed to want to brand her with it, to force her to take its measure against her skin. She could not get away; could barely even squirm, but the long, grinding press did not frighten her as before. Instead, to her dismay, she wished she could explore him with her hands; wished she could see the shape of his desire. Here was a passion a woman could drown in.
Willingly.
Recklessly.
Until she begged her seducer to do with her what he pleased.
Of course, she should have known what Edward pleased had nothing to do with her.
Just as she was ready to add her own hunger to the kiss, he tore his mouth away and held her off from him by the shoulder.
"Now
that,"
he rasped, "could not be less important."
He strode from the room without another word.
Beast,
she fumed.
Horrible, arrogant beast.
She couldn't be attracted to a man like that. Simply couldn't. What was he trying to prove? That she liked his kisses? That she wasn't enough of a lady for his brother?
"I am," she swore to the silent room. "I am." She released a long, tremulous breath,
then
smoothed her hair into its coiffure. She was not a heroine from a penny weekly, tripping blithely down the road to ruin. She was a vicar's daughter, a gentlewoman born. This ... anomaly in her feelings would not sway her.
So long as Freddie Burbrooke wished to marry her, she was more than happy to marry him.
Whether she was more than happy to be Edward's sister-in-law, however, was a very different matter.
* * *
Bloody insane, He
thought, sagging back against the drawing room's heavy door. He'd kissed her.
Again.
For no better reason than her implication that his kisses didn't matter.
What did he expect her to say? That she was secretly in love with him and that Freddie, "the perfect gentleman," could go hang?
As if that would help.
He covered his eyes and wagged his head. Better he should pray she hated him.
Of course, after tonight's fiasco, chances were good she did.
* * *
The journey to Greystowe
was as different as night and day from the one she'd made to
London
. Edward, it seemed, owned a railway carriage.
"The spoils of dirtying one's hands in industry," Freddie teased as he handed a gaping
Florence
up
the stairs.
Inside, the car was as fancy as the duchess's drawing room. The walls were lined in bird's-eye maple,
the couches and chairs upholstered in dark green satin. Quilted black silk covered the arch of the ceiling and a rich Chinese rag, intricately patterned in red and gold,
muffled
the floor. The effect was one of sumptuous, masculine splendor, so sumptuous
Florence
blushed to see it. She couldn't help imagining Edward stretching some eager maiden across that couch, kissing her perhaps as he'd kissed
Florence
. How smooth that silk would feel beneath one's skin; how it would whisper when one moved. With a
tiny shudder, she pushed the senseless image aside. That way
lay
disaster.
"Heavens," she exclaimed, then lowered her voice because Edward was climbing in. "He doesn't own
the whole train, does he?"
Freddie laughed and turned to his brother. "
Florence
wants to know if you own the train."
"No," he said, with his customary curtness. He reached for the duchess's hands. "That honor belongs to the Midland Railway."
His tone suggested
Florence
had been foolish to ask. She sighed and turned away. Moody, Freddie had called his brother, but no one seemed to bring out the worst of his moods as well as she. Fortunately,
she had one of Mr. Dickens's novels to while away the ride. As luxurious as it was, this carriage was
not big enough for her and Edward's moods.