For some reason, this made her smile. To his surprise, she reached out to smooth his hair, one finger combing it gently around his ear. Edward could count on his hand the times she'd touched him on her own. His body tensed, his breath caught in his lungs. A tingle shivered outward from the passage of her hand. The effect of the simple caress was devastating. He wanted to tip her across the table, to toss up her skirts and shove his aching prick between her legs. He wanted to sink his teeth into her flesh. He wanted to possess her.
But if he did, he'd surely scare her off.
"There's my Edward," she said, light and wry.
"Always diplomatic."
Her hand fell from his head to his shoulder,
then
patted his forearm through the sleeve of his coat. He caught her fingers before she could completely pull away. Her arm stiffened, but he didn't let go. Desire beat at him from inside, so insistent he knew he could not court her as he should. He had touched her secrets; had tasted the honey of her need. He could not remain a gentleman, not when he remembered
the pleasures they could share.
"I want you," he said, the words husky. When her lashes rose, her eyes were starred and wide. Fearing what he'd read within them, he shifted his gaze to the satiny curve of her lower lip. A pulse beat in his temple, almost as strong as the throbbing in his groin. He wasn't sure he ought to make this confession, but the words seemed to press out on their own. "There's an ache inside me,
Florence
. A hunger no one but you can ease. I'm not sure how long I can wait for you to accept my suit."
He could have cursed himself when he saw his words sink in. Her mouth drew up in a troubled little pucker.
"You don't have to marry me," she said, "just to get me into bed."
He sat back in his chair, still holding her hand, his mind working furiously to clear. This was the last response he'd expected. Hadn't she run away because he
wouldn't
marry her?
"
Florence
," he said, "I wouldn't do that to you. I would like us to marry quickly, yes, as quickly as possible, but I wouldn't treat you like a lightskirt. I mean, I know we—" His voice dropped as he
recalled their night in the pavilion. "I know we've shared experiences that perhaps we shouldn't, but
things are different now."
She was shaking her head. "You don't understand."
"Then tell me, love." He brushed a kiss across her knuckles. "Tell me."
As if she couldn't both answer and meet his eye, she stared at the hand that lay in her lap. Her breasts rose enticingly with her breath.
"That night," she said, "when you ran after me, when we showed each other pleasure, I told myself I
only wanted to know how it felt to be desired. I hoped—" She gave herself a little shake. "Afterwards,
I hoped I'd become more to you, that you would ask me to be your wife."
"You weren't wrong to think that. I should have asked."
"No." The hand that lay in her lap rose to join the one he held. Her fingers stroked the tiny hairs on the back of his wrist, raising goosebumps and stilling further words. Then she pulled both hands away.
"That isn't what I'm trying to say. I'm trying to say that before we ... did what we did, I wasn't thinking
of what was proper. I genuinely didn't care. I've seen the harm that living up to society's expectations
can do: to Freddie, to your father. Then I was too timid to break the rules. Now I'm no longer sure they matter."
Edward cupped the side of her neck and tipped her chin up with his thumb. "They matter, love. Those rules are the way we honor each other.
The way we show respect."
Her chin evaded his hold. "You said you were ashamed of loving me."
For a moment, her words robbed him of the power to speak. "I didn't say that. I couldn't have."
"You did. When you came to get me at Catherine's, you said you loved me so much it shamed you." When her eyes met his, they brimmed with tears, like emeralds in the flickering light. "I'm still the
vicar's daughter, Edward. Not glamorous. Not rich.
Just simple and shy and poor.
Marrying me won't polish the Burbrooke name. Marrying me won't earn you anyone's respect. I know you want me tonight, but
once you tire of me, wouldn't you rather not be married
?"
"Good Lord," he exclaimed, completely thrown aback. "Didn't you hear me today? Do you think I've learned nothing from my father's mistakes?"
Her eyes flashed fire. "I think you want to sleep with me, and your blasted sense of honor demands
we be man and wife."
"My blasted sense of honor has nothing to do with it. Lord,
Florence
,
a
few days ago you thought
I wanted you to marry Freddie and sleep with me."
"Well," she said grudgingly, "I admit I was wrong about that."
"You're wrong about this, as well." He clasped her shoulders, tempted to shake some sense into her.
"I want to marry you because I love you. Because you fill a space inside me I didn't know was empty. You make me happy.
Holding your hand.
Watching you charm a puppy or a little boy. Those things
bring me the greatest satisfaction I've ever known. I can't imagine my life without them. I don't
want
to imagine my life without them. What's more, I'm not going to stop loving you. You can get that nonsense out of your head right now."
Her face flushed, but the way she bit her lip told him she still resisted. "Those words are beautiful,"
she said. "But it's hard for me to believe you really mean them."
Frustration curled inside him in a tight, despairing snarl. "You don't believe me because I lied to you before."
"Maybe I don't believe you because I'm really no one special."
"Oh,
Florence
."
He released her shoulders to stroke her face. "You're incredibly special."
Her chin wobbled,
then
firmed with challenge. "I'm a pretty country girl is
all.
A brief, animal attraction.
I'm no diamond. I couldn't wrap a man around my finger if I tried."
Edward cursed Catherine's adder tongue,
then
pressed a kiss to her furrowed brow. "Catherine twisted the facts to suit herself. The truth is I left Imogene because she wasn't you, because I knew she would never move my heart as you have. There's nothing brief about what I feel. And if anyone has me wrapped around her finger, that person is you."
A tear clung to the spikes of her lower lashes. "I want to believe you," she whispered. "I want to so
badly it hurts."
"Then do," he said. "Do believe me." Spurred by a sudden impulse, he rose and coaxed her from
her seat. "Come with me."
Her confusion was evident, but she complied. "Where are we going?"
He barely knew himself. An idea was forming, rash and nebulous, one act that might prove how committed he was to sharing his life with her.
Make yourself vulnerable,
Hy-patia had said, and now
he'd thought of a way to do it. He tugged her backward across the parquet floor.
"I asked you to trust me before," he said. "Now I'm going to show you how much I trust you."
She resisted, her arms stretched taut. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do, my love. Yes, I truly do." Walking backwards with both her hands in his, Edward pulled
her past the grand stairway in the hall, past ancestral portraits and busts and faded tapestries that
smelled of must and spice.
Florence
knew these objects must have been saved from the old Greystowe Hall, tangible symbols of his family's ancient power.
I don't belong here, she thought, but the words were more habit -than conviction. Edward made it easier to believe she might belong, with his iron grip and his eyes like burning flames. Those eyes were willing her to follow, willing her to do everything he asked.
When they reached the arch that led to the billiard room, he turned, releasing her hands to drape his arm around her back.
Florence
found herself trembling with anticipation.
His arm was heavy, knotted with muscle. Its strength made her feel feminine and small.
He guided her down the family hall. Here the carpet was new and soft, a swirl of navy and cream. They passed Freddie's suite, empty now, since he and Nigel had not yet returned from their business at the mill. Finally, two doors from the orangery, he stopped. This close to the greenhouse, the air was citrus sweet.
"These are my rooms," he said, and opened the door to admit her.
She waited just inside while he struck a match and lit a twisting silver branch of candles. The drapes
were tied back, the French doors gapped to admit a velvety evening breeze. The doors opened onto the front lawn. Outside, the sky swept from star-dotted sapphire at its peak, to glowing lime, to a glimmer
of crimson beyond the ruffled lake. The colors melted into each other as if the heavens were an exotic cordial.
Florence
could practically taste the last of the sunset, as if it, too, were a scent that hung in the air.
She had an unexpected urge to peel off her clothes and bathe in the vibrant light.
"This way," Edward said, preceding her through the sitting room to another door.
This led to his bedroom. He lit a second branch of candles and set both on tables beside a massive four-poster bed. Her body tightened, helpless to resist the connotations of her surroundings. This was Edward's private chamber, where he slept, where he dressed, where he dreamed whatever it was he dreamed. The bed's carved posts were thick and twisting, the hangings fit for a king. Their bloodred damask folds glittered with gold embroidery, old but well preserved. The rest of the room was equally dark and rich: glossy wood, heavy, overstuffed chairs, and here and there the glint of precious metal.
The walls were painted the same earthy red as the bed.
Above the brown marble mantel hung a small icon of a madonna, her halo thick with gold leaf, her robes so realistically rendered Florence almost reached up to touch them. The Mary was plump and smiling and kind, curiously human, despite the painter's mannered Russian style. The mere sight of her brought tears to
Florence
's eyes.
She turned to Edward, knowing her awe shone in her face.
"No," he laughed, reading her expression. "She isn't what I brought you here to see."
Turning, he crouched to open one of the low teak cabinets beside his bed. Fighting a sigh,
Florence
watched the seams of his elegant frock coat strain across his shoulders. Only Edward could make this lavish room seem small.
He rose with something in his hand, a ball of black cloth. He extended it towards her, his face serious
and perhaps a bit unsure.
"I believe you wanted to use these," he said.
"On me."
Curiosity rose from her chest to flutter softly in her throat. She tiptoed across the Oriental carpet,
then
gasped when she saw what he held: the ties, the black velvet ties he'd used to bind her that night in the pavilion.
Her hand flew back to her breast before she could touch them. "I thought women weren't supposed to—that you didn't like—"
Edward saved her from her confusion. "It's because I trust you. I'm giving you the power to put me at your mercy. You still want it, don't you?"
Her mouth watered at the thought of him stripped and bound.
All that male strength hers to explore, to command.
Her body went heavy and soft, as if her sex were a ripening plum. She swallowed hard.
"I—" she said, then had to start again. "I wouldn't want to do it if I thought it would displease you."
His laugh was not entirely steady. "Look at me," he said. "I'm as hard as my great-great-grandfather's pike. I'm not sure anything you do could displease me."
The bulge that pressed his trousers forward argued on his behalf. It was indeed large; forceful, with a throbbing shimmer of movement that must have echoed his beating heart. His bemusement urged her
to believe him, but before she proceeded she had to understand precisely what he was offering. She
couldn't bear to mistake him again.