Beyond Innocence (8 page)

"Very proper," he said. "The white meat is the tenderest."

His head was lowered over his plate, but when he peered up through his
lashes,
his gaze seemed to rove laughingly across her bodice. She'd never seen a man laugh that way, with nothing but his eyes. It was at once disconcerting and appealing. And it made it utterly impossible not to press her hand to the swell of her breast.

"Edward," Hypatia scolded, "you're making the girl uncomfortable."

The polite thing would have been to deny it, but
Florence
's mouth wasn't working well enough for that.

"No worries," Freddie said, recovered from his cough. "Old Edward's made his joke for the quarter.
You needn't fear he'll try another until August."

"Freddie!" said Hypatia, no happier with his jest.

Despite the duchess's disapproval,
Florence
felt the heat recede from her cheeks. The brothers' effect on her could not have been more different. Thank goodness for Freddie. His words made her comfortable again: a part of the fun rather than the object of it. When Edward tendered a stiff apology, she was able
to accept it with a modicum of dignity.

"See, Edward," Freddie teased, "not just pretty but forgiving."

Florence
returned his friendly grin. What an agreeable young man, she thought. If he was a sample of what
London
had on offer, her quest to find a husband would not be hard at all.

CHAPTER 3

The following week
was spent in giving and returning calls.
Florence
doubted she was "taking," as Aunt Hypatia put it. The blur of faces and names confused her, and she rarely thought of anything to say.
How could she? She did not know the people being discussed, nor any more of fashion than Madame Victoire had
laid
on her back.

Aunt Hypatia, however, gave every appearance of being pleased.

"Modest and unassuming," she pronounced as the footman handed them into the carriage after a visit
in posh

Such claims made
Florence
uncomfortable but, considering how generous the duchess had been and
how little else
Florence
had to offer, she felt she really ought not to complain.

When she was not engaged with calls, Freddie claimed cousin's privilege to squire her around, taking her riding in the parks or on a boat ride down the
Thames
. She enjoyed herself immensely, for Freddie was
a charming companion, full of witty stories but also drawing her to talk about herself. By the end of the week, he knew more about her than almost anyone alive.

She had to remind herself the duchess could not mean for her to fix her affections on him. Her nephew would marry an heiress, she decided, one of those laughing Americans, perhaps, who would not make him stand on ceremony.

"Do you think so?" he said when she shared her theory. He fixed her with an odd, speaking look which, provokingly, did not speak clearly to her.

They were leaning over the rail of a pleasure boat, chugging westwards from the pool of
London
. The Victoria Embankment lay ahead, and the bristling brown towers of Parliament. They stood so close they bumped elbows but, as ever, she was comfortable with his touch.

"You don't like Americans?" she probed, expecting some quip in response.

Instead, he turned his gaze to a nearby collier. The heavy ship wallowed under its load of coal and Freddie's expression wasn't much lighter. He looked so sad of a sudden
Florence
's ribs squeezed tight with pity.

"I'm fond of English lasses" was all he said.
"Pretty ones, with straight dark hair and eyes as green as glass."

She did not take the implication seriously, not from a flirt like him. No doubt some foolish American
had broken bis heart, and that was the source of his pain. But if one had, he did not reveal it. The moment passed and he was soon as bright as ever.

His brother joined a few of their outings, which was not as unmitigated joy.
Florence
did not know why, but he seemed to have taken her in dislike. Freddie's claim that his sibling would not venture more than one witticism per quarter seemed to be correct. Not that she wanted to hear more foolish sheep jokes. One had been enough. Still, she hardly thought it necessary that he frown every time he looked at her. She would have been tempted to evade him but for Freddie's obvious delight. He adored
his older brother and, despite Edward's wooden manner, she could see the sentiment was returned.
Nor could she fault Edward's politeness. Everywhere they went, he introduced her as their cousin.
Shy as she was, she couldn't help being gratified at being seen with these impressive men.

If only the elder of the two could have been a little warmer!

He was not ugly, she decided. To be sure, his build wasn't as lithe as Freddie's, but he was every bit
as tall. His shoulders were broader, his limbs heavier and more powerful. His face was interesting if
one looked past his glower. His expression had
an intensity
and an intelligence which was impossible to ignore. True, his brows overhung his eyes, and his nose was as sharp as Aunt Hypatia's. His forehead, however, was truly noble, his jaw strong, and the most exacting critic of human beauty could not have found fault with the sensual perfection of his mouth.

His hands, she thought with a peculiar inward shiver, were also nice. They were large and careful and capable. She found it hard to imagine the task they could not do.

When they all went riding in Rotten Row, her pride in the brothers' company was so great she felt the glow of it in her cheeks. Freddie's style turned every eye and Edward, who rode a magnificent, deep-chested black stallion, was so imposing the other horses sidled away at his approach. His hands seemed barely to move upon the reins. Freddie's gelding frisked with high spirits, but Edward's horse behaved as if he were too proud to do anything except precisely what Edward asked.
Florence
found
this astonishing. In her experience, stallions were rarely fit for anyone but madmen and braggarts to ride—and Edward was clearly neither. He called the beast Samson, for his long caramel-colored mane.

Florence
's bay mare, leased from a local stable, seemed inordinately fond of the big black horse. She
was a pretty creature, with a gait as light as a cat's, but if
Florence
's attention strayed for even a
moment, she would shoulder over to Samson and rub her muzzle against his neck.

"She's in love," Freddie teased the dozenth time
Florence
tried to wrestle the mare away. "Edward,
you'll have to bring Buttercup back to Greystowe for Samson's harem."

Florence
had heard such talk before, of course. Back home, horses and their breeding were as great a topic of conversation as the weather. Nothing Freddie said should have embarrassed her. For some reason, though, maybe because Edward's eyes were on her, or because the mare chose that moment to press even more amorously into Samson's side, a great wash of heat poured through her limbs. From head to toe, her body pulsed with the fiery tide.
Florence
had never experienced the like. Sweat prickled between her breasts and where her thigh was jammed against Edward's burned as if his leg were made
of coal.

With a soft cry, she thrust out her hand to keep from being crushed between their mounts. Her palm caught Edward's hip, right where his buff-colored breeches stretched across his groin. His leg was
harder than she expected. Her fingers curled in reaction and, as a muscle shifted abruptly beneath her touch, the strange throbbing heat intensified inside her.

Edward wrenched away with a curse. "For God's sake," he exclaimed, his color high, "watch where
you lay your hand."

"I—I—"said
Florence
, but before she could get the apology out, he was tearing through the trees
towards the Serpentine's banks, clods of turf kicking up beneath Samson's hooves.

Mortified,
Florence
tried to contain her tears. In all her life no one had spoken to her so coldly. Of
course, she could not deny she deserved it. He must think her twice the fool: first for not controlling
her horse and second for having the temerity to touch him where no lady should. That she hadn't meant to hardly
mattered
. Worst of all, there were witnesses to her shame. Two young women in jaunty feathered hats had stopped beside the sandy path, and now were tittering behind their gloves.
Florence
had the awful feeling she'd met them on one of her calls. The Misses Wainwright, she believed, whose mama had asked so many pointed questions about Freddie and his brother. The woman had been most encroaching and
Florence
had thought perhaps it was her nose Aunt Hypatia meant to put out of joint
by launching her.

Florence
certainly hadn't helped that ambition today. They, too, cantered off before she could decide whether she ought to nod.

The only saving grace was that Freddie hadn't seen them cut her.

"Don't mind Edward," he said, giving her horse's withers a soothing pat. "God love him, but he's
moody."

"He's right," she said, every part of her aquiver. "My failings as a horsewoman are undeniable."

"Pooh." Freddie waved the suggestion away.
"Got as fine a seat as anyone.
Not your fault Edward
chose a horse with a fancy for his."

Her heart picked up strangely at his words. "Edward chose my horse?"

"Didn't he just!
Wouldn't trust the job to anyone else.
Drove the man at Tattersall's batty.
Nothing too slow, he says, but nothing too fast and, no, that one ain't near pretty enough. And what does he get for his pains but this lovelorn creature?"

The mare whickered as if she took offense. Most of
Florence
's hurt was lost in the laugh she and
Freddie shared. Not all of it, though.

Lord Greystowe's disapproval had a powerful sting.

* * *

Edward rode full
out until he hit the quiet of
Kensington
Gardens
. Up till then, the necessity of dodging phaetons and buggies had kept his mind from the brand Miss Fairleigh's palm had seared onto his thigh. The girl was too innocent for her own good.
Too innocent for
his
good.

With a muttered curse, he dismounted beneath the willows that lined the Long Water's banks. His lingering erection made him awkward but he ignored it. He was used to it by now, or should have been. He had only to think of the girl and his sex began to fill. Worse, he was beginning to like her. Most girls
in her position would have been grasp
ing or sly, but she was an amiable little thing, and so tempting to tease. A hundred times a day he thought of some quip to make her blush,
then
had to remind himself
that charming her was Freddie's business. Sighing, he removed his hat and raked his sweaty hair back from his brow. A heron stalked the placid lake before him, its stately progress canning his disordered nerves. As if to remind him how hard he'd been working, Samson blew impatiently in his ear.