One Night in London (23 page)

He followed her upstairs as if it were completely normal. Strangely, it felt normal, as though he belonged in her house, in her bedroom. Even when he closed the door behind him, there was no awkward awareness.

She went to her dressing table and sat down to remove her jewelry. In the mirror, she watched Edward take off his coat and waistcoat, and unwind his cravat, his eyes fixed on her. He came up behind her and put his hands over hers as she reached for the clasp of her necklace.

“Let me.” He unhooked the necklace and let it fall into her lap. With the same lack of urgency he pulled the pins from her hair until it fell loose around her shoulders. He caught the length in one hand and twisted it all to one side, so he could press his lips to the nape of her neck, sending goose bumps racing down her arms. Francesca swayed in her seat and gripped the edge of the dressing table. She couldn’t have moved for anything, as his mouth whispered over the slope of her shoulders, nipping at her earlobe, lingering at the side of her neck. And she could watch every action in the mirror, which seemed to double the effect of everything he did.

“Stand up,” he whispered. His silver eyes gleamed at her in the mirror. He slid one hand, palm down, over her shoulder and down the bare skin of her bosom until he could flick undone one small button at the side of her breast that held her dress closed. She gazed at him defiantly, then leaned back.

His head bowed as he studied the expanse of skin above her bodice. He flicked another button loose, then curved both his hands over her breasts. She inhaled sharply and pressed against him; she could feel his erection surge against her shoulder blades. His hands flattened on her breasts and he rocked his hips against her back. “You do nothing for my gentlemanly instincts,” he said, his voice grown rough.

“I don’t care for them at the moment.” She arched an eyebrow at him in the mirror. “They proceed too slowly.”

“Good,” he growled. In a few seconds he had undone the rest of her gown and peeled it down her arms. Francesca pushed herself to her feet, expecting to step away from the dressing table, but Edward stopped her. He kicked the chair from between them and stepped up close behind her, pinning her to the table. He let her shove the gown down over her hips, but by the time it hit the floor he was already winding his fist in the hem of her shift, twisting it around his hand until he had pulled the whole thing to her waist. He anchored her to him with that hand, his arm solid muscle around her waist, and slid his free hand down her belly.

“Too slowly, you say?” He laughed softly as she opened her mouth, then only moaned as his fingers slipped between her thighs. “I shall have to try harder to please you, I see . . .”

Francesca couldn’t speak. She couldn’t look away from the mirror, where his every action was reflected back to her. The lamplight gleamed on the gold ring he wore as his long, strong fingers stroked the soft curls between her legs, then probed deeper to touch her so delicately, so perfectly, she quivered like a plucked violin string. But he knew her body better than that; he gentled his touch. He petted her until she melted. He played with her until she was panting, pushing her hips into each stroke. He curved one finger high up inside her until she almost screamed. He moved against her, grinding his erection between the curves of her bottom, and she writhed in his grip, casting her arms backward around his neck as she felt herself nearing the brink.

“Feel what you do to me,” he whispered, pressing against her so she could feel every rock-hard inch of him. “You drive me mad, Francesca . . .”

She gave him a reckless smile, even though she was all but draped over his chest, held up only by his arm around her and the tips of her toes as she arched into him again. “I don’t believe it . . . You’re still clothed . . .”

His answering grin was savage. He yanked his hand out of the folds of her shift, letting her back down onto her feet. He pulled open the collar of his shirt and then tugged the whole shirt over his head. She stared breathlessly at his reflection as he reached for the fastenings of his trousers. “Put your hands on the table,” he rasped. She leaned over and spread her feet, and then he rubbed the blunt head of his cock against her before sliding deep inside.

She shuddered and almost climaxed right then. Edward scooped one arm around her chest, his hand cupping her breast. His other hand went back to her sex, his fingers opening her to his merciless pleasuring as he began thrusting hard into her from behind. “Open your eyes,” he commanded. “I want you to see what we are together . . .”

Francesca pried open her eyes and tried to focus on the image in her mirror. She looked wanton and voluptuous, fully exposed by the man who surrounded her inside and out. Her hair swung loosely around her in time with his pounding possession, and she braced her fists on the dressing table to drive herself backward, hard, faster, deeper into his strokes. She could see his fingers moving between her legs, drawing those internal threads of rapture tighter by the second until she thought she would break from the tension. She watched his hand fondle and grip her breast even as the sensations arrowed straight to her belly. And over her shoulder, his face, now dark and taut, his eyes glowing like moonlight as he took her right over the edge of sanity into oblivion.

Edward felt her climax, and bared his teeth in raw male triumph as her head fell back and Francesca let out a long, thin cry of release. He pushed deep and held himself there, relishing every contraction of her body around his. But he couldn’t take it for long; watching her expression in the throes of ecstasy sheared away the last bit of control he had. He shifted his grip to her hips and rode her hard until his own climax engulfed him, drowning any other thought.

For a long moment there was only the sound of her soft, half-gasping little breaths, and the thud of his heart, loud in his ears. He had never felt this . . . this liberation, this unfettered contentment. Not with another woman, not after a hard day of accomplishment, not after a brilliant business maneuver, not even after beating his brothers at anything. His body was wrung out with physical satisfaction, his mind felt fogged and sluggish, but his heart . . .

“If this be madness,” came Francesca’s weak voice from behind the shining veil of her hair, “lead me to Bedlam.”

“Perhaps tomorrow. I don’t think I can make it further than the bed.” He took another deep breath as she laughed, and the vibrations rippled through her body into his. “I could stay here forever,” he added, almost to himself, as he brushed aside her hair to nuzzle the back of her neck.

She raised her head and gave him a sultry look. “Forever! How many wicked plans do you have?”

“You have no idea,” he murmured, easing away from her. He reached around and began untying her stays.

“Perhaps I have wicked thoughts of my own as well.”

“I willingly submit myself to them all.” He stripped off the stays and then her shift, leaving her in just her stockings. “Tell me about these ideas. How wicked are
you
, my dear?”

She laughed again. “Until tonight, I would have said more wicked than you! But now . . .” She began leading him toward her bed. “I shall never look at that dressing table in quite the same innocent way.”

“Nor me?” Suddenly serious, Edward caught her face in his hands. “You said you would never reconsider Alconbury’s suit; you say he is only a dear friend to you. What am I?”

The answer shone in her expressive eyes before she glanced away with a blush and an awkward laugh. She cared for him, beyond their intense physical attraction, beyond the cooperation they had begun to find Georgina. Any latent fear that she might have been using him, for any reason, was laid to rest. She started to stammer an answer but Edward stopped her. He knew what he needed to know.

F
or the better part of a fortnight he took Francesca every place he thought might amuse her. She protested at first, but he persuaded her she needed to do something besides hunt for Georgina. They went to the theater, the opera, and Pidcock’s Menagerie. They visited the Tower, to see the king’s jewels and arms, and the British Museum to see the antiquities. Every day Edward fell more and more under her spell. He still got reports from Jackson on the search for Georgina; he still oversaw Durham business with Mr. White and directed Wittiers on the petition to claim the dukedom for Charlie; but never far from his mind was the next time he would see Francesca. The more he was in her company, the more he wanted of it.

One night it came to him that this was what happiness was. Lying in her bed with her in his arm, sated and content, he embraced the feeling that had been steadily growing stronger and stronger. He had never been shy about pursuing what he wanted, once he determined it was worth pursuing. He pulled Francesca snugly into both arms and kissed her shoulder.

“Come away with me,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, just for the day. Let me take you to Greenwich, or Richmond, anywhere out of London. I want to get away from the city.”

“Greenwich!” she exclaimed, twisting to look at him in surprise. “That is,
yes
, of course, anywhere . . . But what—”

He kissed her until she melted in his arms again. “Will you?” He smiled as she stared up at him somewhat dreamily and nodded. “Good.”

“What is in Greenwich?” she asked playfully as his kisses wandered down her jaw and neck. “What are you plotting now, Edward?”

“Something wicked,” he murmured as he bent his head to her breast, settling his weight atop her until their bodies fit together as perfectly as they always did. “But . . . something wonderful.”

He was plotting how he would keep her with him.

Forever.

Chapter 22

T
he next morning Edward left early. Barely awake, Francesca mumbled a protest when he rose with the sun and dressed, but he merely whispered that he had plans to make before whisking her away for the day. Then he kissed her, and she almost succeeded in enticing him back into bed, but he merely laughed under his breath and promised to let her have her way later.

But when the door closed softly behind him, she found herself unable to go back to sleep, even though she knew her face would show the signs of another sleepless night of sin. She was hopelessly in over her head. Alconbury had warned her that Edward wouldn’t marry her or even stay attached to her for long. At the time she had brushed it aside, because she didn’t need Alconbury’s advice and because she didn’t want to think about the end of her affair with Edward when it was just beginning. But it had been several days, and Edward was at her side more than not. Everyone had remarked it. And now the thought refused to be swept away, although she still didn’t have an answer to Alconbury’s other question, about what she truly felt for Edward.

When he showed up in the theater box unexpectedly, she had been taken off guard by how happy it made her. When he squired her about town as if he had no interest in being anywhere else, it only made her want more. Even with Alconbury’s warning lingering in her ears, she was still helpless against the lure of Edward’s company. No doubt she would have invited him into her bed even if he’d told her outright that he only intended a brief affair.

The trouble was . . . she didn’t think he intended that. The trouble was, he’d asked her to go away with him. He questioned her about her feelings for Alconbury, as if to make certain she wasn’t in love with another man. He gave every impression of courting her even though they were already lovers. The trouble was, she’d gone and lost her heart to him, stunningly swiftly but no less completely, and she wanted him to tell her at Greenwich that he had done the same for her. And if he didn’t . . .

With a scowl, Francesca threw back her covers and got out of bed. She really was her own worst enemy at times. Here she found herself in love with a handsome, wonderful man who was obviously deeply attracted to her, who never patronized her or belittled her in any way, who was able to overlook her more outrageous actions, and all she could think about was what awful thing he might be about to tell her. She opened her wardrobe doors and rummaged through her clothing. Today she was going to take things as they came, and not set herself up for any disappointment. If Edward only told her he cared for her, well, that was still good news. If he told her he wanted to keep making love to her, that was also good news. She reminded herself that Edward was not like her; he was methodical and rational and not likely to lose his head over a woman in a matter of weeks, no matter how combustible they were together in bed. She remembered his description of how he became engaged to Louisa Halston, a process that had taken months or even years.

“He called me managing,” she told her reflection in the mirror as she held up a green dress in front of herself for inspection. “That is not a compliment.” Even though it sounded like one when he reminded her of it in her breakfast room the other day.

“But then he said he wanted to see me again,” she went on, casting aside the green dress and reaching for the russet and cream one. “And then he did so, very publicly.” Which was not a declaration, but many people would think it one.

“If he doesn’t wish to see me anymore . . .” She stared at her own face in the mirror and had no words for the stark expression she found there. “There is no reason he must continue,” she whispered.

Good heavens, what did Edward mean by this outing to Greenwich?

She finally chose her sapphire blue riding habit, in case he meant for them to ride, and went downstairs. Mrs. Hotchkiss met her at the bottom of the stairs and held out a note.

“This is just come for you, madam. May I say you look very well this morning?”

Francesca smiled at her housekeeper. In spite of her furious wonderings, she did feel very well, with hope and nervous anticipation fluttering inside her chest. “Thank you. I’ll be going out today.”

“Shall I have Mr. Hotchkiss bring the carriage?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. I shall be going with Lord Edward.” The older woman nodded without blinking an eye and bustled out to bring breakfast.

Francesca opened the note at the table. Sally Ludlow wrote that she hadn’t seen or heard from Alconbury since the scene in the theater a few nights before and she was worried. She asked, tactfully, if Francesca had any idea what might have happened. Her postscript belied any true concern, though, as it begged her to be kind to Alconbury when next she saw him, and remember that he really did love her.

She sighed. Everyone was so quick to assure her one man was in love with her, just as they assured her the other man was not and never could be. How much easier things would be if her feelings had fixed on the man who loved her. Or rather, if the man her feelings had fixed on was the man who most assuredly loved her.

Alconbury, she knew, would be fine. The day after Edward had joined her in the Ludlows’ theater box, Alconbury sent her a lovely little posy of daisies.
Apologies for last night—wishing you every happiness,
the card read, signed only with his swooping initial. She hadn’t seen him since. Whether that was because she had been so often with Edward, or because Alconbury was avoiding her, she couldn’t say.

She quietly folded Sally’s note. She was fortunate to have such friends. She hadn’t seen the Ludlows, either, since that night at the theater; they moved in different circles than Edward. Since he had begun squiring her around, she hadn’t seen any of her usual companions, in fact. She hated to think that she must give up her friends to be with him, or that she must keep the two separate. It was another obstacle she didn’t feel like facing, not yet.

She expected Edward might need a while to make his preparation, so it was a happy surprise when she heard the jangle of harness and the creak of a coach outside just an hour after she finished breakfast. She flew up the stairs to retrieve her hat and was just starting back down when the knocker sounded, a hard, rapid pounding. Mrs. Hotchkiss, already on her way to the door, hurried forward to answer it.

“Where is Lady Gordon?” Edward surged through the doorway and almost grabbed Mrs. Hotchkiss. “I must speak to her at once!”

“I’m here,” she said, startled. “What is it?”

He looked up at her, his face breaking into a fierce smile. “Jackson has found Georgina.”

Francesca’s knees gave out at the unexpected response. Georgina . . . She had been so caught up in thoughts about her own situation, she hadn’t even thought of her niece today. The guilt hit her at the same moment relief did. She collapsed with a thump on the stairs, still clutching her hat. “Where?” she whispered. “Where is she?”

He strode past Mrs. Hotchkiss and took the stairs two at a time until he reached her. “Bethnal Green.”

All the way on the other side of London, but still close enough. She nodded, unable to speak. Thank the blessed Lord Ellen hadn’t taken Georgina far away; that had been her deepest fear, and now that it was put to rest, she said a swift prayer of thanks. She would have her niece back in a matter of hours.

Edward cupped her cheek in his hand. “You look about to faint—Mrs. Hotchkiss, bring some sherry.”

“No.” She wrapped her trembling fingers around his wrist. “I’m fine. I’m going this instant to fetch her.”

“Of course. My carriage is outside.” He helped her up, and they went down the stairs.

“Have you really found her?” asked Mrs. Hotchkiss anxiously as Francesca tied on her bonnet. Francesca nodded, too overcome to speak. The housekeeper exclaimed in delight, and shooed her out the door when Edward opened it. “Godspeed,” she cried. “Bring back the young miss as soon as you’re able! And sir, oh, God bless you, my lord!”

She felt overcome as they hurried into the carriage and Edward told his driver where to go. “I cannot wait to see her again,” she said softly when he was beside her and they were on their way. “She’s the sweetest child, Edward. I’ve missed her so desperately.”

“I know.” He pulled her into the circle of his arm. “Does she look like you?”

“No, she’s the image of her mother. Giuliana took after our mother, while I inherited my father’s coloring. Georgina has dark hair and fair skin like Giuliana did.” She smiled. “Even when Georgina was an infant, my sister despaired that she’d gotten our mother’s nose as well. I could see no sign of it, but she grows so quickly. I wonder how much she will have changed since last I saw her?”

“You’ll soon find out,” he said, squeezing her shoulder.

“I know. I can hardly believe it . . .” Her voice failed her as she thought of how she had almost despaired of ever seeing this day. And without Edward, she might still be waging her quixotic battle to secure a solicitor.

“And it is all thanks to you,” she went on as tears sprang into her eyes. They were tears of elation, but Edward pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “I cannot thank you enough, Edward, for all you’ve done—for helping me, and comforting me, and your sage counsel—”

“My part was a small one,” he said. “It was your determination that mattered.”

“Indeed.” She laughed weakly and wiped the tears away. “My determination won nothing until it got the better of me and I invaded your house to rail at you about Wittiers.”

“You are too harsh on yourself.”

“I was frantic with worry. Ellen had just vanished, and I had no idea—the neighbor told me Georgina looked thin.” She turned to him in alarm. “Did the investigator say how she looked? Is she well? Is she hurt? If Ellen’s mistreated her, I swear I’ll call the constables on her!”

“He said she looked well,” said Edward in a soothing voice. “There’s no cause to worry about that yet.”

“I don’t think I can offer her money if she’s been beastly to Georgina,” Francesca went on. “Even unintentionally. Why, it’s surely abuse to keep a child in squalor when she has relations who would gladly care for her!”

“Jackson said nothing of squalor. Don’t leap to conclusions.”

“I am not leaping to conclusions,” she exclaimed. “I’m trying to prepare myself for what we might find.”

Edward shook his head. “But are you prepared for what you must do?”

“Of course! We talked several times about it—I even agreed to bribe Ellen to return her to me.”

He gave her a look of admonition. “That may not be the most tactful way to put it.”

Francesca flipped one hand impatiently. “Of course I wouldn’t call it such to her face.”

“Then what will you say?” He put up one hand as she scowled and opened her mouth to respond. “Remember that if you offend her, she may refuse just to spite you, even if the arrangement you offer is entirely in her favor.”

Yes, that seemed very possible. Francesca closed her eyes for a moment and struggled to control her feverish impatience. “Very well. What should I do?”

“Stop assuming the worst.” She pressed her lips together. Edward held up one hand, his expression set and determined. “Also, most importantly, you must not act as if you want this more than anything.”

She cringed. “Impossible.”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re perfectly capable. When you brought Sloan’s paper to my home and offered to procure a retraction, you managed to be cold and practical.”

She glared at him. “I was not! My palms were damp and I was biting my tongue the entire time.”

“But . . . ?”

“But I knew you wouldn’t help me if I lost my temper again,” she admitted through her teeth.

“Not true,” he said, to her surprise. “I wanted that retraction very badly. Never underestimate your opponent’s desires. But you offered a fair bargain, one I had no choice but to consider, and then you let me realize that. For all I knew, you might have had a list of other men you planned to approach with the same request, and if I’d said no, you would have walked away.”

She frowned. “But that won’t work with Ellen. She has the one thing I want—Georgina—and she knows it. If she refuses, I can hardly approach someone else with the same offer.”

“Very true, but you must approach her as if you
want
to strike this bargain with her. Your other course of action is to go to the court, which would be very expensive for both of you. Each of you stands a roughly equal chance of losing, which would mean bearing the expense as well as losing the child and her income. Tell her you want to avoid that, to benefit you and her alike. Show some compassion, even if you must feign every ounce of it, for her circumstances.”

“I have tried to, really I have—and I
do
feel some sympathy for her. But you didn’t see Georgina as I last did, teary-eyed and unhappy, begging me to take her home with me. You didn’t hear Percival shouting that he would call the watch on me if I didn’t get out at once. You didn’t hear Ellen declare that she would never give up Georgina—” She stopped, breathing hard.

“Have you any idea how I longed to plant my fist in Gregory Sloan’s face?” he asked, a hard twist to his mouth. “Or barring that, to sue him into penury? And you asked me to sit calmly by and listen to you
charm
him.”