"Yes," said Edward, stroking the horse's lathered nose. "You're a good fellow."
A better fellow than his master.
Samson hadn't lost control when that mare rubbed up against him.
Nor was Samson contemplating another visit to Cumberland Terrace. Three times this week that made, with each encounter more frenzied than the last. Imogene was cooing.
He shook his head in disgust and opened his collar to the breeze. He couldn't keep exorcizing his lust
for his brother's intended with his mistress. Even if Imogene didn't know, it wasn't right. No, he had to wrestle this demon to ground
himself
.
Florence
wasn't for him.
Florence
was for Freddie. And they were getting on famously. Per instructions, Freddie was giving a fair imitation of an increasingly besotted man. Nor did his interest seem feigned. He was fond of the girl, genuinely fond. He repeated things she'd said, planned excursions for her pleasure, and, as far as Edward could see, enjoyed their time together.
Just the other day, he told Edward how she'd charmed the duke of
Devonshire
's horse. "Silly beast
tried to eat the girl's hat," he'd laughed. "You know what she said
? '
Why,
your
Grace. I'd no idea that
hat had such good straw.' That shows pluck, Edward. Pluck.
Especially for a girl who'd jump at her
own shadow."
Freddie was proud of her, as a man should be proud of his future wife. All in all,
Edward's plan could not have been progressing better.
If he hadn't been so attracted to her himself, he was certain he would have been glad.
* * *
Freddie,
Florence
, and
the duchess stood in a courtyard behind a big Palladian building on Piccadilly, waiting for Edward to arrive. For the last four years, this brown and white mansion had housed the
which they had come, was the first great event of the Season. The look of the crowd upheld her claim. All around them, the cream of
London
society filed slowly towards the entrance, their clothes exquisite,
their
demeanor impossibly proud. Always an object of attention, the duchess nodded at many who passed, all of whom seemed pleased to be acknowledged. Surprisingly, many nodded at
Florence
as
well.
Florence
did her best to smile and bow, but was far too agitated to attempt more greeting than
that. To her relief, she did not see the Misses Wainwright.
"Don't fidget," said Aunt Hypatia, softening the order with a pat.
Florence
barely heard her. She did not know if she was glad or sorry Edward had chosen to see the
show. The duchess could use his arm, of course, and Freddie was always happy to have him, but
Florence
was finding Edward's company increasingly oppressive to her nerves. She could not seem
to catch her breath when he was near. If he should chance to touch her, her hands would begin to
shake. The mere sight of his shoulders in one of his conservative black coats caused a peculiar
palpitation of her heart.
Today, his top hat did her in. It was perched with perfect straightness on his head, its gleam no richer than that of his wavy hair, which was clipped so close to his neck the locks didn't dare curl over his
collar. What drove a man to treat his hair as if it were in danger of running wild? And what, she wondered, would happen if he let it?
The question was nonsensical, of course, and the answer not her concern. Determined not to pursue
it, she folded her hands at her waist and composed herself to greet him.
He met them with his usual stiff bow and frown, a frown that deepened as he took in her long-waisted apricot gown. She wore one of her new French corsets beneath it, laced today a little tighter
than she
was used to. The color was flattering as was the ecru lace that spilled from its neck and sleeves. The bustle was
modest,
the sweep of the polonaise no more extravagant than any woman her age might
wear. Her hat was a marvel of simplicity: a tilted satin chip with a single white feather in its brim, so
small it perched atop her upswept hair like a saucer to a teacup. Freddie had gone into raptures when
he saw her; said she'd outshine anything the painters could devise. And Freddie knew fashion. Because
of this,
Florence
refused to believe Edward was frowning at her outfit.
Which meant he had to be frowning at her.
"
Florence
," he said, no more than that, and turned to escort his aunt.
The deflation she felt once his eyes had left her was completely inexplicable.
"Are you sure he wanted to come?" she whispered to Freddie as they, and the rest of the crowd, crept
up the double staircase in the hall. "You didn't bully him into it, did you?"
"Me?"
Freddie's eyes widened in surprise.
"Lord, no.
Couldn't keep him away.
Edward's a true patron
of the arts. You watch. Everyone else will be gossiping about who's wearing what and who's wooing whom and old Edward will be looking at the pictures."
Freddie, apparently, belonged to the gossiping set. She lost him to a group of laughing men as soon as they entered the hall. He waved at her to join him but she didn't want to go, not only because his companions looked a trifle fast, but because she wanted to see the show. This, to her, was the lure of
London
. Not parties, not
cartes de visites,
but plunging into the heart of art and culture. When she couldn't spot Edward or the duchess, she resigned herself to touring alone.
Happily, no one paid the least attention as she wandered from room to room. Each wall took a good
deal of study, for the paintings were crammed together, one atop the other, all the way to the ceiling.
Florence
didn't mind the confusion. She loved seeing these works in person, rather than as engravings
in a magazine. Even the bad paintings pleased her, for she could see the brush strokes and the colors
and imagine the real live painter at his work. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to have the ability
to create.
Some of the pictures were very fine. For long minutes, she stood entranced by Mr. Millais's portrait of
the grand Mrs. Bischoffshein, her character captured so thoroughly
Florence
felt as if she knew her. A termagant, she thought, but one with a sense of humor. She stopped as well when she reached Tissot's
Too
Early,
which, by luck or design, hung by itself above a lovely marble fireplace. The picture depicted four lovely, but obviously embarrassed, girls, waiting with their escorts in an empty ballroom. "Do you like it?" said a deep familiar voice.
Florence
's heart began to pound. She couldn't recall Edward soliciting her opinion before. She snuck a look at him but, thankfully, his stern blue gaze rested on the painting.
She answered as steadily as she could.
"I like it very much," she said. "The artist has so perfectly captured the awkwardness of arriving first
one can hardly help but smile."
Edward tugged his lapels. "You like a picture that tells a story?"
"As long as the story is interesting."
"What about that French fellow, Monet, or Mr. Sisley?" For the first time, he looked directly at her,
both his gaze and his tone challenging.
Florence
felt an odd swooping in her stomach. No man should have lashes that thick. For a moment, her face was so hot she thought she'd faint. She had to swallow before she could speak.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with their work."
Edward nodded as if her answer was no more than he'd expected. "Come with me," he said. "I have something to show you."
To her amazement, he took her not by the arm but by the hand. Even through her gloves she could
feel the warmth of Ms
hold
. Her fingers were utterly swallowed in his grip. She could only pray he
did not sense the sudden dampness of her palm.
He led her through a maze of arched doorways to the very smallest of the galleries. There he handed
her a pair of silver opera glasses and pointed to a painting which hung, as if the Academy were ashamed to have accepted it, in a high, dingy corner near the ceiling.
Florence
put the glasses to her eyes. "Am I looking at Mr. Monet or Mr. Sisley?"
"Neither," he said, with the perversity she had come to expect. "This work is Mr. Whistler's."
She could feel him breathing, slowly, steadily. He stood directly behind her, his long legs brushing her skirts, his big hands tilting the binoculars to guide her gaze. Her arms began to tremble. They only
stopped when she focused on the painting.
"Oh," she sighed, unable to keep her wonderment inside. The picture showed a bridge just after sunset
on a misty night, with the shadow of a solitary boatman punting the current underneath. She'd never
seen anything like it. It was a completely new thing, a blur of subtle colors which somehow created a world. She felt her mind open in the strangest way. This, she thought, is a painting of the future.
Edward seemed to share her excitement.
"Isn't it something?" he said, the words a gentle stir beneath her hat.
"It's extraordinary! Why, it's nothing but smears of dark and light blue, but you know exactly what it is. He has it precisely: how the water looks at night, even how it feels, as if the whole world had gone to sleep but you. It makes me want to cry just looking at it and yet it's quite, quite beautiful."
Lost in admiration, she didn't even jump when Edward's hands settled briefly on her
shoulders,
just a quick, warm squeeze and they were gone.
"I was thinking I would buy it," he said.
Florence
couldn't help herself. She lowered the glasses and turned to him. His expression was musing,
his exquisite mouth relaxed. For once, he looked as young as Freddie. Oh, I could like him, she thought. If only he behaved this way more often, I'm certain we could be friends.
"Do you know," she said, "I've never known anyone who bought a painting."
He laughed at her admission, a soft, open sound that brushed her ears like a puppy's growl.
"Careful, Miss Fairleigh.
You betray your origins by such a statement."
His eyes were twinkling so kindly she knew he was teasing. All the same, she found it impossible to
hold his gaze. It was too blue, too warm. She looked at her hands instead, still clasped around his opera glasses. "My origins are difficult to hide," she said, smiling a little herself. "Aunt Hypatia says I mustn't even try."
"Well, if Aunt Hypatia says..." he agreed, and smoothed back the little white feather which had fallen forward from her hat. It was a gesture his brother might have made, thoughtful and protective.
Florence
shivered under it as she never had with Freddie.
"Are you cold, Miss Fairleigh?" Edward
asked,
his voice low and oddly husky. He had bent forward to view her face, an action necessitated by his greater height. She could see the shadow of his whiskers beneath his skin; could smell the woodsy aroma of his cologne. She wouldn't have thought he'd wear scent, a sober man like him.
The fact that he did pricked her deep inside.
He has secrets, she thought.
He is not at all the man he seems.