If she'd been wearing one of her
Paris
corsets, she'd have fainted. As it was, she had to sit, heedless
of the dirt and the bugs and the crackle of last year's leaves. The roots of a gnarled old oak formed the arms of her chair, its trunk her back's support. She shut her eyes and everything she'd seen was there, seared into her memory. With a low cry, she pressed her hands to the damp, hot skin of her face, but even that could not shut the visions out.
Pandora's
box
had spilled its awful secret.
Bad enough she lusted after the brother of the man she meant to wed. She should have been grateful Merry had made pursuing him impossible.
But she wasn't.
She was sick with envy, sicker than she'd been at the loss of Buttercup. Her stomach was cramped,
her throat tight, and her heart ached with the truth she'd feared to face. Her affection for Freddie had
not saved her, nor her memory of her father's broken heart, nor the many hurts Edward had inflicted without her having done a thing to earn them. Nothing had saved her.
Florence
was lost.
Florence
was in love with Greystowe's earl.
CHAPTER 10
Mrs. Forster had just helped Freddie with his bed bath. According to the housekeeper, his morning tiff with Nigel had been of a severity to make the steward reluctant to offer aid.
"Grown men," she clucked as she gathered basins and towels.
"Tussling like boys."
Freddie had the decency to look abashed. He sat by the window in a purple throne-backed chair,
perhaps an indication that he had won the morning's fight. One leg of his silk pyjamas was slit to make room for his cast. A fine lawn shirt hung open at his chest. It was a nice chest, every bit as nice as Edward's. It was paler and not as broad but it had just as many muscles.
When Mrs. Forster saw who'd come in, she moved to button Freddie up.
"Oh, leave it," he said with a languid wave. "It's warm today and it's only
Florence
. I doubt my
betrothed will faint at the sight of my manly glory."
The housekeeper muttered about "modern morals," but
Florence
could tell she wasn't truly angry. Freddie's voice stopped her at the door.
"Thank you, Mrs. Forster," he said, gentle and serious. "You've been an angel."
Mrs. Forster had saved her parting shot. "Guess I won't faint at the sight of your manly glory, either."
Freddie grinned at her broad, departing bustle,
then
offered his hand to
Florence
. "Good morning, sweetheart. To what do I owe this honor? I thought you'd be at your lessons."
Florence
obeyed his urging to perch on the arm of his chair. Unwilling to meet his eyes, she stared at
his chest where his breastbone divided two smooth curves of muscle. "Merry is gone. She and her
maid left at dawn. I think she and Edward had a disagreement."
"Not over you, surely?"
"No,"
Florence
conceded, but couldn't bring herself to explain. She could still see Edward's strained expression as Merry's mouth teased his belly; could still feel the emotions that stormed inside her when Lizzie broke the news. Merry was gone. She had tried to seduce the earl and the earl had sent her away. For too many reasons to count
Florence
should have been sorry to see her go. To her dismay, she was exultant. None of which she was about to tell Freddie.
Good-natured as ever, he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.
"Very well.
Never mind telling me why. I can guess. Edward must be kicking himself for not discouraging her sooner. I'm sure he
didn't enjoy disappointing you."
"I... I'm all right," she said, and deliberately trailed her hand down his resting arm.
Freddie inhaled sharply in surprise. Their eyes met. His were wary, but he masked his caution with a smile. "What is it,
Florence
? What's troubling you?"
She played with the edge of the cotton that draped his chest. "Would you mind if I kissed you, Freddie?"
His jaw dropped. "Of... of course not, sweetheart. But—"
She leaned in before he could blather about innocence and honor and what her father would think if he knew. He fell silent as she braced her hand on the violet seatback beside his head. The fabric brought
out the blue in his eyes, eyes as lovely as any she'd ever seen. His face was a pleasing arrangement of strong, smooth bones, his lips well cut and sensitive,
his
brows perfect winging arches. He was more
than handsome: he was as comely as a poet's knight.
"
Florence
," he whispered as his golden lashes drifted down. Gathering her courage, she pressed her lips
to his.
His mouth was soft. Remembering Edward, remembering Merry, she touched its seam with the tip of
her tongue. Thankfully, Freddie guessed what she was about. He sighed and opened for her and met
her wet, gentle stroke with his own. He knew this game better than she did. She was happy to let him take the lead. His arms gathered her closer, turned her, and pulled her onto his lap. Her breasts rested
on his chest, her bottom on the top of his thighs. Despite his cast, she fit easily against him.
His kiss was delicate; careful, as if the least bit of force might break her. An angel might have been rocking her in warmth and kindness. The turmoil she'd felt when kissing Edward was absent, but so
was the excitement. Nonetheless, the feelings Freddie stirred were pleasant. Her body relaxed as his fingers trailed down her neck, playing over her collarbones in long figure eights, as if he relished the texture of her skin.
Heartened by her progress, she slipped her fingers under the open edge of his shirt. When she brushed
her thumb over the point of his nipple, he stiffened and pulled back. His face showed none of the
tautness she'd seen in Edward's, only a brotherly sort of calm. Apparently, she did not have Merry's
skill at rousing men.
"I'm sorry," she said, hanging her head. "I know I'm not good at this."
He smiled at her, pulled her hand from his chest, and kissed its knuckles. She felt uncomfortably like
a child who was being humored.
"You did nothing wrong. But I think these are not matters we should rush. A woman's honor, once lost, can never be regained. What would your father think?"
"I knew you'd say that."
"You see? You don't feel comfortable, either." He stroked her hair with a warm cupped hand. "Don't
be glum, sweetheart. Five months is not so long to wait."
Not for him, perhaps. But a lot could happen in five months. Rather than say so, she snuggled closer.
Her movements seemed not to affect him. His manly part did not rise, nor did his heart beat wildly in
his chest. Freddie remained what he'd always been: a perfect gentleman.
She wondered what he'd do if he knew his betrothed was not a perfect lady.
* * *
Aunt Hypatia's invitation
could not have come at a better time.
Florence
was desperate for distraction from her failure to seduce her fiance, if only the distraction of a visit to one of the duchess's childhood friends. Oddly enough, the impending reunion seemed to make the duchess nervous. She fidgeted with her skirts and
gloves,
then draped her lace-ruffled elbow over the side of the open carriage. Her sigh
was soft but audible.
"Is something wrong?"
Florence
asked. Aunt Hypatia drummed her fingers on the victoria's curving door.
"Just an old woman's memories.
When you're my age I suspect you, too, will have the dubious pleasure of seeing the changes time can inflict on those one cares for."
"You're not old,"
Florence
assured her. Aunt Hypatia
laughed,
a soft, dry echo of her eldest nephew.
"It's not the years, my dear. It's the bruises. But the friends of our childhood are the friends we treasure most. They're our link to the past. No one knows us so well or forgives us so much."
With those provocative words, the carriage pulled into a narrow, rutted lane. Low stone walls girded the road, along with pretty two-storied houses. The one at which they stopped stood out from the others by its fresh-scrubbed air. Half-timbered, with a clean thatch roof, it was not much larger than the vicarage
in which
Florence
had grown up. A small garden surrounded the white limed walls. The gravel path to
the door was perfectly straight, as were the low, blooming flowerbeds. Marigolds marched like soldiers down its length, in alternating stripes of orange and gold. The compulsively tidy display made
Florence
smile.
To her surprise, Aunt Hypatia touched her sleeve to stay her.
"Sit for a moment, dear. I believe I should tell you something of the woman you're about to meet. Catherine and I were girls together.
Very dear friends.
I have never known a creature so loyal, nor
so protective of those she loves."
"But?"
Florence
prompted when the duchess paused.
"But she was disappointed young, by a man, as it happens. It has made her bitter and perhaps a trifle strange. I know you will not judge her. You're a kindly soul. But it might be best if you did not speak
too much of your engagement to Freddie, even if she asks. She worries that other women will make
the same mistake she did."
"I shall guard my words,"
Florence
promised, her heart going out to this woman she'd never met. How easily might she step into those painful shoes herself! With more than her usual care, she helped the duchess from the carriage. She was the loyal one,
Florence
thought, to remain this true to a childhood friend.
A servant in brown twill and apron answered their rap on the door. She was as plain a woman as
Florence
had ever seen: young, but as stolid as a dockworker. Her eyes were dull in her weary face,
her arms thick with muscle. Considering Aunt Hypatia's warning,
Florence
wondered if she'd been
hired for her lack of male-attracting traits.
Inside the little house, the comical tidiness of the garden turned oppressive. The servant, probably a maid-of-all-work like Lizzie had been, led them to a small front parlor. The furniture was spotless and plain and completely unwelcoming, in the style of the days before the queen. Modem taste appeared
only in the profusion of gewgaws that covered the polished surfaces of the room. The effect would have been friendly but for the regimental precision with which each item had been aligned. The candlesticks and doilies, the gilt-framed photographs and ceramic memento art seemed an army against the forces of disorder. Even the sunbeams that poured through the broad bow window couW not diminish the effect
of rigidly imposed control.
Interestingly enough, upon entering, their hostess strode briskly to the window and closed the drapes. "The carpets," she murmured over her shoulder, a gentle, mournful scold.
The hulking servant hung her head.
"Sorry, ma'am.
I thought your guests might like the light."
Her employer's sad little smile did not alter. Since she wasn't looking at them,
Florence
studied her with interest. Her figure was not as trim as Aunt Hypatia's, but it had not thickened much. Her hair retained
a touch of blonde among its gray and her face, now seamed with age, must once have been very pretty. Her features still conveyed a sense of delicacy, like a fine bisque doll. Her house dress, neither fashionable nor noticeably the opposite, was of well-pressed and slightly faded black silk, as if she'd
spent much of her life as a widow.