Beyond Innocence (11 page)

"Well, John," she snapped to the senior man, "have
them
bring around the carriage."

"Yes,
your
Grace," he said in his eerily drawn-out voice, as if being struck by his mistress were an everyday occurrence.

It made
Florence
wonder what she'd gotten into when she let the duchess take her under her wing. If
she failed to live up to Hypatia's plans, would her calves be stinging, too?

* * *

Her
heart find
plenty of time to flutter before their coach crawled its way up the line of carriages to the door. Such dresses she saw as they waited! Such silks and jewels and clouds of expensive perfume! For once, she was glad Madame Victoire had spared no expense on her couture. She would at least look as
if she belonged.

When they reached the fancy overhang of the porte cochere, Edward lifted her out of the carriage. The clasp of his hands made her even more breathless than the corset. She hadn't supposed a man could be that strong. She seemed to weigh nothing in his arms. As he set her on the pavement, their eyes locked. Edward's shone like hot blue flames, intense but mysterious, and completely focused on her. Warmth spread over her breasts. Wish though she might, she could not quell the reaction. Embarrassed, she touched the tulle that swathed her bodice. Edward looked away.

"Watch your train," he said, as gruff as ever, and helped the duchess down.

When she was settled, they ventured together up the stairs. Grateful for the distraction,
Florence
could not contain her curiosity. She'd never been in a house this grand. To her it seemed a palace. A pair of torches shaped like nymphs, with gas globes balanced on their shoulders, lit the reception area inside the door. While the liveried footman announced their names,
Florence
goggled. The nymphs bore no more covering than a gauzy, scarflike cloth which seemed to have blown across their privy parts. Their breasts were bare and topped with swollen nipples—not stiffly swollen, as if the nymphs were cold, but soft, as
if the breeze that blew the scarves had gently kissed their skin.

An irrational yearning pulled her closer. She would have liked to touch that polished bronze. Even more puzzling, she would have liked to stand in the nymphs' place, equally bare, to be kissed by the balmy breeze and admired by passersby. A statue could not be shy, after all. A statue could only be adored.
She touched the metal plinth, surprised to find it cold.

"
Florence
," hissed the duchess.

She hurried after her with a gasp. What was she thinking? Without a doubt, her recent fears had disordered her mind!

* * *

In its way,
the Vances' home was as confusing as Euston Station. The mansion in Knightsbridge had
been designed by Robert Adam in an opulent, classical style. Every public room—and there were many—boasted marble columns and gilt and inlay and magnificent stuccowork ceilings. The paintings were as fine as any she had viewed at the Academy. With difficulty, she tore herself past Gainsboroughs and Reynoldses and followed a female servant up the stairs to the women's cloakroom.

In this bustling boudoir, an obliging lady's maid took her wrap and smoothed her hair and, best of all, showed her a quiet corner where she could sit. There, behind a sheltering screen of potted palms, with
the sweet night air flowing in through an open window,
Florence
shut her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

She told herself she could do this. She would take the evening slowly. She would speak when spoken
to, dance when asked, and—above all—pay attention to any nice gentlemen she met. The sooner she settled herself, the sooner she could repay Aunt Hypatia's faith, not to mention her purse.

Her face had begun to cool when a trio of women stopped on the other side of the wall of greenery.
To her dismay, two were the Misses Wainwright, in matching white tarlatan gowns. They stood so
close she could not possibly leave without them seeing her. But perhaps she would stay where she was
a little longer. Discretion was, after all, the better part of valor. Her cowardice thus justified,
Florence
steeled herself to wait as quietly as she could.

"They say he's smitten," the elder Miss Wainwright was saying. Her name was Greta,
Florence
recalled, and the younger's name was Minna. Both sisters were handsome, built on Amazonian lines with dark gleaming hair and equally dark and gleaming eyes. Their curls, the likes of which Lizzie despaired of
ever coaxing from
Florence
's hair, hung in perfect corkscrews to their shoulders. They sang charmingly, she had heard, and possessed a wealth of airs and graces. Their only flaw, if it even was one and not a figment of her imagination, was
a certain
petulance to then-mouths. Truthfully, whatever
Hypatia's ambitions
,
Florence
could not imagine outshining these lovely girls.

"I can't believe his affections are engaged," said a third woman whom
Florence
didn't know. "Everyone knows he's an incorrigible flirt. I'm sure he's simply being cousinly."

"Perhaps," drawled Miss Minna in a cool, superior tone. "But one of her cousins doesn't welcome the association. I saw him cut her myself.
Galloped off without a word when the hopeless ninny bumped
his horse.
I thought she'd burst into tears right there."

Heavens,
Florence
thought, starting up in her chair. They were talking about her, about her and Edward. Heart thundering, she shrank back and willed the women not to see her. Fortunately, they were too caught up in their gossip to look around. Even as
Florence
held her breath, the third whispered furiously in Minna's ear. When she'd finished, Minna's curls trembled with indignation.

"Now that," she pronounced, "is the grossest slander yet. Freddie Burbrooke adores women. Any female who's met him knows that. In any case"—she snapped her painted fan—"I don't see why we should concern ourselves with such
a nobody
. Why, if it weren't for that tired old dragon who's carting her about, no one would pay her any mind."

"She
is
pretty," Greta said in the tone of one too sure of her own beauty to be threatened.

"Milkmaid pretty," Minna scorned. "And who among us believes those blushes don't come out of a pot?"

If the trio had seen
Florence
then, they would have known her blushes were real. Her very ears were hot. With relief, she watched the women moving towards the door. The third, alas, had a final parting shot.

"
It's
animal magnetism," she said as they rustled off. "She's coarse and fleshy and men are the biggest animals of all. Didn't you hear what
Devonshire
's horse did to her hat?"

Florence
clapped her hands to her cheeks. Were people really talking about that?

A low, musical laugh broke through her shock.
Florence
looked up. A slim young woman with frizzy gold hair and freckles was parting the fronds beside her ear, like an African hunter who'd found his game.

"I see from your horror," she said, "that you are the infamous Miss Fairleigh."

The woman's words were so mischievous
Florence
couldn't help but laugh. She rose and dropped a
small curtsey. "I am," she said.
"Milkmaid blushes and all."

"And I," said the girl, "am Meredith Vance, the plainest deb in
London
." She gave
Florence
's hand a brisk, unfeminine shake. "Shall we walk down together and show those silly cats that plain girls and milkmaids know how to behave?"

Florence
had not met Miss Vance before, but knew her to be the daughter of their hosts and, therefore, the daughter of a duke. Consequently, she was momentarily flustered by her offer.

"It would be my honor, Miss Vance," she said once she had found her voice.

Miss Vance wrinkled her nose. "Call me Merry," she said, as if
Florence
herself were the daughter of
a peer. "All my friends do and I'm certain we're going to be friends."

Miss Vance's kindness stole her breath. Dear as Keswick was, the village had been home to a great many genteel old ladies.
Florence
couldn't remember when she'd last had a friend her own age. Of course, she thought more soberly, Miss Vance's generosity meant she couldn't hide in the cloakroom all night.

"My brothers are going to swamp you," her rescuer predicted.

Florence
endeavored to look as if this news were good.

* * *

Edward leaned against
the wall with his champagne punch, watching an endless succession of males
whirl Florence Fairleigh around the floor. She was, as she'd predicted, an awkward dancer. Not surprisingly, none of her partners seemed to mind. Rather, they gazed at her with puppyish eyes, trying
to coax her to lift her shyly lowered lashes by telling amusing tales. Even the older men played this game, as if she in her innocence made them remember theirs.

Only Freddie succeeded. He arrived late with a shower of apologies and immediately swept
Florence
into a waltz. Within minutes, she was shaking her head with laughter, easy in his arms as she was in no one else's. Her smile dazzled Edward all the way across the room. Freddie was good for her. Freddie brought her into her own. Even when he took her to meet his friends, she did not lose her glow. Edward saw her speaking to them and watched them laugh at whatever she'd said. Somehow, Freddie had found
a way to share his charm with her.

Her earlier terror might as well have been a dream. Certainly, she didn't need Edward's assistance now.

He thrust his hands into his pockets, glummer than he could ever remember being. He shouldn't stare
at her like this. He was only torturing himself. But how could he look away? Peter Vance was dancing
with her now, a sprightly polka which could not have shown her stiffness to worse effect. Why did her awkwardness enthrall him? His heart thumped at the way she craned her slender neck to watch her stumbling feet, at the way her skirts caught Vance's legs, at the way—God help him—she blushed
when Vance bent to whisper some tease in her shell-like ear.

Edward ground his teeth. He was an idiot.
A complete and utter idiot.
The obsession he felt for this girl made no sense whatsoever.
It did no one any good: not him, not her, not Freddie.

"People are saying you snubbed her," said a throaty, boyish voice.

Caught by surprise, Edward looked down quite a few inches and found himself gazing into the wide freckled smile of their hosts' youngest daughter. He'd met her at Tattersall's, he recalled, a horse-mad
girl, as plain in speech as she was in appearance.

"Miss Vance," he said, and bowed politely over her hand. "Forgive me for not noticing your approach."

She gave him a rap with her fan that put him more in mind of Aunt Hypatia than a seventeen-year-old coquette. "Didn't you hear me? People are saying you don't like Florence Fairleigh."

Edward squinted in confusion. "Are you acquainted with Miss Fairleigh?"

"Oh, yes," she said airily. "Your cousin and I are great friends—ever since I heard those Wainwright witches taking cuts at her in the cloakroom."

Edward's spine snapped straight. Someone had hurt
Florence
? Someone had dared? "What Wainwright witches?"

His unwitting growl made his companion laugh. "The same Wainwright witches whose mama has been stalking you these past two years."