A chance.
A chance to love and lose like the man who raised her.
She closed her eyes. She knew what her father would have chosen; knew he wouldn't have given up the happiness to avoid the pain. For all
his sadness, he had loved his life, loved his work,
loved
her with all his soul. Before her stood the price
of living safely, of guarding oneself with vitriol and mistrust. Catherine and Imogene had half the life
they might and less than half the joy. Her father would have wanted better for his daughter, even at the risk of being hurt.
She looked at Edward, her heart beating harder, her faith struggling to rise.
"Yes," she said, sliding her arms around his neck. "Yes, please take me home."
He hugged her hard enough to squeak, hard enough to warm her through and through.
"Yea," cheered a little voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Florence
peeked over Edward's shoulder. Lizzie had been eavesdropping, along with Catherine's servant, Bertha.
"I'll start packing," Lizzie said, scurrying eagerly up the stairs.
"I'll help," Bertha seconded, thumping up behind her. Her eyes held a glint
Florence
had never seen in them, a rather defiant glint.
Florence
hid her smile against Edward's neck and hoped Greystowe had
room for an extra maid. She suspected Bertha would soon require another post.
"You'll be sorry," Catherine predicted as the four of them trooped down with their belongings.
"And next time I won't be here to take you in."
A cooler shadow of her aunt, Imogene watched from the door of her room.
"Give my regards to Freddie," she purred.
Florence
could not help but shudder at the sweetness of the threat.
* * *
Edward didn't remember
his father's letters until they'd walked a score of paces down the lane. The bundle was still in his jacket, which lay in a scatter of glass on the parlor floor. He hesitated a moment, then continued doggedly on. He'd brought those letters for Catherine. They might as well stay where
they were. Maybe she'd read them. Maybe she'd throw them on the fire. He didn't give a damn as long
he never saw her again.
Not that he counted on being so lucky.
He looked around at his companions. Considering what they'd escaped, they were surprisingly subdued, blinking in the sunshine like a bunch of prisoners let out from the Tower. Shock, he supposed. It wasn't every day the underside of human nature got exposed. For her part,
Florence
.
alked
a wagon's rut apart from him, not far enough to insult, but not close enough to touch. The two maids trailed behind, whispering furiously behind their hands, as mismatched a pair as Edward had ever seen, though they seemed to be bosom friends.
"Yes, Bertha can work for me," he called over his shoulder.
The whispering dissolved into giggles. Edward smiled. That was more like it.
"Thank you, Lord Greystowe," chorused the girls.
Buoyed by the change in mood, he reached for
Florence
's hand. She jumped at his touch but let him
hold it. Her warmth was sweeter than sunshine, her closeness a tonic for his soul. He wondered that anyone could take such joys for granted. But
Florence
wasn't quite as happy as he.
"I feel horribly foolish," she said, low and shamed. "I didn't believe you when you warned me about Catherine Exeter."
"You had no reason to believe me," he said. "And quite a few reasons not to."
"But I should have seen—"
"What her oldest friend could not? Hypatia is no one's fool, you know." Knowing she needed reassurance, he led her across the ditch to sit on a low stone wall. Pasture spread around them, and
sheep grazed in huddles. Fields of grain rippled like water in the summer breeze. The girls exchanged knowing grins as Edward waved them on. When
Florence
was settled beside him, he stroked the full length of her unbound hair: a husband's privilege, one he hoped would soon be his.
"Was it true?" she asked.
"About the letters from your father?"
"Yes."
She folded her hands between her knees.
"How very sad."
"Mm," he said dryly.
"A cautionary tale."
Florence
did not smile. "Do you suppose she'll ever read them?"
He wondered why this worried her but he answered. "I don't know. She might not be able to face the truth. Her hatred for my father may be all that gives her life its shape."
"She taught Imogene to hate men, too, you know. Or at least to think she's better than they are."
Edward smiled. "I imagine that's a lesson Imogene's vanity predisposed her to believe." He smoothed
Florence
's hair behind her ear. "Must we talk about them? I'd far rather talk about us. For instance,
you haven't said whether you'll marry me."
"I want to," she whispered, her gaze evading his.
"But?" he said as gently as he could. When he tried to look into her face, she hunched her shoulders. "You can't tell me you don't love me,
Florence
. I've seen it in your eyes."
"I do," she said. "I do love you."
His heart swelled to hear her say it even though he'd known it to be true. "But?" he repeated.
"But it's so new. So much has happened in the last few months. Leaving Keswick and Freddie and Catherine and, well, it's hard to sort everything out. I believe you when you say you love me, but I wonder—" She drew breath to gather her courage. "I have to wonder just how long that will be true."
"I see," said Edward. And he did see all too well. It was going to take more than pretty words and promises to undo the damage he had done.
Aware that she'd pricked his feelings,
Florence
wound her fingers into a knot between her knees. She didn't like hurting him but she couldn't call back the words. She would not lie anymore, not to herself
and not to him. Imogene might have stretched the truth, but
Florence
knew she'd told a part of it.
Edward was a man accustomed to taking his pleasures.
Florence
had seen that for herself. Given that she'd done the same, she could not judge him for it. She could, however, fear.
They sat in silence while a wagon full of chickens plodded past them towards the town. The horse wore
a hat on its nodding head, its balding owner none. The driver offered a hail which Edward returned with
a lift of his hand. From the ease of the exchange,
Florence
knew the man had not recognized his earl.
Not seeming the least insulted, Edward rested his forearms on his knees.
"
Florence
," he said once the last squawk and rumble had disappeared, "I know I haven't been what I should to you, neither as brother-in-law nor as lover. I lied when I should have been honest. I was a storm when I should have been a shield. If you'll let me, though, from now on I should like to be your friend. I should like the chance to win your trust."
Without turning his head, he extended his hand to her, palm up, fingers gently curved. She knew he did not make this offer lightly. His arm was tense and he watched her from the corner of his eye. She suspected if she turned him down, he might not try again.
She held her breath even as he held his. She was almost certain she could give him what he wished. She knew she couldn't refuse to try, not when he asked so humbly for her pardon. With the sense of leaping into a gulf, she placed her small hand in his large one.
His fingers curled around her own, warm and sure and slightly damp.
His grip spoke of both strength and vulnerability.
An honest hold.
A loving hold.
The sensations it inspired were so powerful she had to close her eyes. Slowly, as if she might shy, Edward pulled her hand onto his knee.
"So small," he murmured, reverently stroking its back. "And yet within this little hand she holds my heart."
The words startled her, as did the sentiment behind them. Her eyes blinked open to search his face,
but he
CHAPTER 16
The grandfather clock
ticked in the corner of the dining room, measuring out the silence a second at a time. With nerves as tight as the pendulum's spring, Edward watched
Florence
push her lamb and peas around her plate. Though her head was studiously lowered, he doubted she'd taken a dozen bites. He wasn't particularly hungry himself. He forced himself to swallow to set a good example.
She was pale yet from her ordeal. If Edward had his way—indeed, if Mrs. Forster had hers—she would have taken this meal in bed.
Florence
had resisted with the stubborn lift of her chin he'd come to admire as well as dread. "I'm not completely spineless," she'd said. "I think I can manage to dress and come down for dinner."
None of his assurances that he didn't think her spineless had turned her from her intent. Her attitude alarmed him. He was afraid that, in her desire to redeem herself for taking refuge with Catherine Exeter, she might refuse to take refuge with him.
He'd already spoken to Aunt Hypatia; consulted her, actually, on the grounds that she must know more about women than he did. She'd smiled and patted his hand as if she did possess a secret. "It isn't merely you she doesn't trust," she said. "It's herself, her own judgment. If you want her to feel less vulnerable, you have to make yourself more so."
But Edward didn't know how a man could be more vulnerable than to ask the woman he loved to marry him.
"Give it time," his aunt soothed. "You'll think of something."
Because of this exchange, he and
Florence
sat alone at the long mahogany table—his aunt having developed a convenient headache. Their plates were set properly at either end, so as not to make
Florence
feel pressed. Despite the distance between them, he'd never been more aware of her. Every flutter of her lashes stirred a ripple in his heart. The motions of her hands were more erotic than a
naked
tableau vivant.
She wore one of the dresses Aunt Hypatia had bought, a pale blue silk with
ruffles of ivory lace. The candles in the huge epergne sent shadows dancing across her cleavage,
shadows that filled the aching tissues of his groin.
He wished he knew what caused that quick rise and fall of creamy flesh.
Nerves?
Fear?
Or was she,
too, thinking of the night to come?
He'd declared his love. He'd asked her to marry him. Those things ought not to have sent her back into her shell. They ought to have set their relationship right. They ought to have brought them closer.
Impatient with their impasse, Edward rose.
Florence
looked up. As always, her beauty squeezed his
heart, more so now because she looked so thin and breakable. Gritting his teeth, he held his wineglass
and plate before him.
"I'm coming down there," he said, more aggressively than he'd intended.
Florence
merely nodded and continued chasing peas with the tines of her fork.
Muttering under his breath, he took the chair beside her. He gestured to her laden plate. "Cook will be upset if you don't eat."
Florence
grimaced and took a single bite. Edward was not satisfied.
"You need to build your strength," he insisted. "You don't look well at all."