Undesirable Liaison (31 page)

To give herself
in love, unloved? To know desire must fade at last, that she must
inevitably end bereft? Unendurable! She could not live as her
mother had done, waiting for his visits. And dying a little every
time he left her. Rather would she live without him now, than live
with him knowing she must lose him.

At first she
had wanted to fly from Bedfont Manor on the instant. Common sense
dictated otherwise, and Florence had instead set in train the means
whereby she could go without endangering herself or Belinda.

The letter to
Mrs Halvergate had requested that lady’s assistance in finding
employment in London. Any sort of employment—a chambermaid or a
milliner’s assistant, if need be. This was no moment to be picking
and choosing. The priority was to settle so an income was
forthcoming. From there, she might try for a better place, provided
the Fates were kind.

Alive to the
horrid possibility that she could be pregnant, Florence had taken
to counting the days. She was yet some way off any hope of settling
the matter, for she must wait another week or two to know. What she
would do if she should prove to be carrying Jerome’s child, she did
not dare to think about. That bridge must be crossed when she came
to it—if she came to it.

Meanwhile, she
had best lay plans for a future that promised nothing but
despondency. Only the necessity to conceal her misery from other
eyes—in particular the pair belonging to the cause of it—could
raise her battered spirit to a semblance of its former level. So
she had thought.

But tonight,
the wretch had lifted her with a single look—and shattered her
resolve.

What had he
meant by it? She had almost read in it a message, but that the
shock of it had sent her senses reeling and her heart into high
gear. But there could be no mistaking the flame in Jerome’s
magnetic brown eyes. He wanted her yet, and the knowledge set her
limbs trembling. She had known it deep down. To see it was another
matter.

Almost she
began to wish she were pregnant, so to be prevented from holding to
the sane course. For Jerome, if he had fathered a bastard on her,
would never consent to allow her out of reach of his protection.
She had his measure for that.

Pacing her
chamber without seeing where she trod, she pictured just such a
cottage as the one in which she had grown up, in an out of the way
part of the viscount’s estates. She saw herself becoming big with
child, and Belinda—their roles reversed, for a wonder!—taking care
of her at Jerome’s bidding.

The vision
faded, was swept aside with a moan of despair. Was that all it
took? One look filled with a sort of promise to set her hoping,
longing for him to come to her. Or was it only because he had shown
her nothing but coldness? A pretended indifference. Oh, he was far
from indifferent now. But it would change in time.

Though she had
returned quickly from seeing Belinda to bed, fuelled by foolish
hope, Jerome put in no appearance. The disappointment proved
overwhelming. So much so that sleep became impossible.

Finding herself
at the door of her chamber, Florence opened it, listening to the
quiet of the night. Nothing stirred. A ribbon of moonlight lit the
corridor, creeping in from the window at the end. To light a candle
would involve decision.

Flo slipped
out, gliding silently along the passage, with no clear idea in her
head of where she was going or what she intended.

As she came out
into the main stairwell, she felt the chill of night despite that
April was upon them, and hugged her arms about her. Pausing at the
balustrade, she looked over into the pool of light cast by the
tall, unshuttered windows.

It was very
quiet. She ought to return to her room, but the illusion of freedom
caught at her and she realised she had felt imprisoned. More by her
thoughts than anything else, but it helped to be out of her room
and she resisted the thought of going back.

Did it matter?
Who would know, when all was said and done? And if she were
discovered, which was unlikely given the household had been long
abed, she would say she could not sleep. It was the truth, after
all.

Going down to
the gallery, she took a couple of turns up and down the long
walkway. A trifle soothed, she decided to head back, but without
rational decision, began to descend the main stairs.

She was halfway
down the second flight before she saw the shadow in the hall below.
It moved. A gasp of fright escaped Flo, and she froze on the
stairs.

There was an
instant of silence. Then a familiar voice, softly calling out.

‘Who’s
there?’

Relief flooded
Florence and she uttered his name aloud.

‘Jerome! Lord,
you gave me such a shock!’

Part of the
shadow came away, and Jerome lurched into view. A large outline,
his face a ghostly blur in the moonlight, but for the odd glitter
at his eyes and a sheen glancing off the flow of black hair. From
his shoulders hung a shape that must have been a dressing gown,
untied or thrown carelessly about him. The image threw Flo back in
time, and at once she knew he had been drinking.

Just so had he
looked that fateful night—an aeon ago—when he had returned from
London in the early hours. His conduct then had set in train the
whole sorry mess in which they found themselves.

Inevitably,
perhaps, Florence flew into a temper, flinging her accusation at
him.

‘You’re
drunk!’

‘A trifle
disguised,’ he corrected, and his unwavering gaze bore out the
words.

Too wrought up
to take this in, Florence launched into attack, descending the
stairs as she did so.

‘If this is not
typical of you! I never in my life met anyone as unpredictable as
you are, Jerome. It should be I who takes to drink, if there is any
justice. How dare you behave in this horrid fashion?’

‘What horrid
fashion?’ he demanded, setting his arms akimbo and glaring at her.
‘And what is it to you, in any event? You, who would forsake
me.’

Flo stared up
into his pallid features. ‘From where does that come, may I ask? I
forsake you? When you have given me no sign but of coldness these
many days, leaving me in limbo as to what is to happen next. And
then tonight, without warning, you throw me a look at dinner so
full of hidden meaning as to cast me into the greatest
apprehension—and then I find you here, utterly inebriated.’

‘I am not in
the least inebriated. If you imagine I cannot hold a mere
half-bottle of wine—’

‘Pray spare me
a recital of your indulgences. Why did you look at me so?’

Perplexed,
Jerome eyed the fierceness in her face, illuminated clear enough
with the moonlight full on it. The river of her hair rippled in the
same diffuse light, distracting him. He spoke without thought.

‘I don’t know
how I looked at you.’

‘Intently—as if
you meant to burn me. As if…’

Her voice died,
and he caught a change in the quality of her gaze. Her lips
remained parted, and Jerome became aware of a warm hollow in his
chest just before the familiar ache of desire started up.

‘It’s no use,
Flo,’ he murmured out of the certain knowledge he had been trying
to defy.

Because it was
too complicated to resolve. Because he was afraid of what it must
mean. Because a whole bottle, two or even three bottles of wine
would never change it.

She did not
reply, and he supposed she understood him. When he kissed her, she
made no evasion. For a moment, her mouth was passive under his. And
then he felt her arms snake around him, and the contours of her
lips pressed into his.

Jerome hissed
in a breath as his desire intensified. Yet he remained aware of
Florence, attuning his need to hers. It was a heady feeling, and
one wholly alien. He wanted her, but for the first time in their
dealings, it was of more significance that she should be in
control. If she made a move to stop, Jerome knew he would
accommodate it, no matter the frustration it might cost him.

But Flo,
returned to the haven of his arms, had nothing in her head but the
intense joy of being where she had longed, these barren days, to
be. All she had recognised within herself went into her returning
kiss, as if with the surrender of her body, she might make him a
present of her heart and mind.

The result was
explosive, more intense than either could have dreamed. Shocked,
Jerome released her even as Florence pulled away. She stood mute
and trembling, and took in that his condition was as bad. Her eyes
met his, and a hectic feeling of wonder enveloped her.

‘What in the
world was that?’

Jerome’s laugh
danced eerily around the empty hall.

‘I don’t know.
But whatever it was, I want more of it.’

She echoed him
in her mind, moving into his embrace as he reached for her. His
mouth claimed hers, and a full-blown fever seized her, drowning her
in heat. No remembrance of where they were or how she came there
intervened.

Before she knew
what was happening, Jerome was perched upon the stairs, and had
drawn her into his lap.

A sigh escaped
her at the feel of his embracing arm strong about her, while his
free hand slid down to catch at her gown, drawing it away so he
might reach her flesh. His touch burned and Flo gasped, forgetful
of her surroundings, unheeding as desire built and she followed
blindly in the promise of his intent.

Fire scorched
her veins, and her mouth searched again for his, even as his lips
caught at hers, seeking the velvet depths within.

Her senses
awash, Flo was aware only of sensation—until a mocking voice broke
crudely into the surrounding fog of silence.

‘Well, I knew
it must be so, dear coz, but I confess I little thought I should
come upon the proceedings in full view of a houseful of potential
spectators.’

***

For one
horrified moment, Jerome froze as one with Florence, dull refusal
impairing his ability to think. But the reality of it could not be
gainsaid.

His heart began
to thunder in his head, a precursor to rage. An oath escaped him,
and reaction was swift.

He lifted
Florence from him and, rising hastily from the stairs, set her
down. Releasing her, he turned in one fluid movement to confront
the intruder.

Sheinton stood
at his ease on the landing, the sneer on his handsome features
illuminated by the candelabrum held up by one hand. Like Jerome, he
was clad in a nightshirt, covered over by a flamboyant crimson
dressing gown, braided in old gold.

‘Have you taken
leave of your senses?’ growled Jerome. ‘What in Hades do you mean
by it?’

To his
increased chagrin, Theo laughed. ‘I should have thought that
question had been better addressed to yourself, old fellow. Or is
it your custom to flaunt with your whores in full public view?’

For an instant
the fatal word did not register. When it did, Jerome acted purely
on instinct.

His fist
bunched as he bounded up the stairs, and he caught the startled
horror in his cousin’s face before the avenging blow took him hard
on the jaw.

‘Jerome, no!’
screamed Florence, as the candelabrum flew over the banister rail
and crashed onto the marble floor, just as the thud of Mr
Sheinton’s body fell heavily onto the first stairs of the second
flight.

The hall was
plunged into darkness, save for a small pool of light thrown by a
single candle left alight. Transfixed and trembling, Flo had stood
where Jerome had put her, staring at the man in blank horror until
Jerome’s hasty assault. Now she hesitated between the necessity to
extinguish the burning flame and the need to prevent Jerome from
murdering his cousin.

Impelled by a
sudden flurry of grunts and thuds emanating from above, Flo flew to
the more urgent task.

As she hurried
up the stairs, her eyes began adjusting and she could just make out
the figures of the two men—the slighter enveloped in the bear hug
of the larger.

Even as she
wondered frantically how she was to separate them, there came a
confused medley of opening doors and running footsteps from the
upper floors.

The servants
were stirring, and no wonder. Too glad of the approaching
assistance, Flo gave no thought to her compromising situation, nor
to the incongruity of what was going forward on the landing.
Reaching the top of the flight, she paused, unknowing how to enter
the fray without endangering all parties.

‘Jerome, for
heaven’s sake,’ she called urgently. ‘You will kill him!’

The response
was muffled, but the throb of fury was audible.

‘I intend
to!’

Florence
watched in dismay as the younger man was once again felled. She saw
him try to raise himself, heard his rasping breath, and seized
Jerome’s arm, tugging him back with strength born of
desperation.

‘Let be, Flo,’
he growled, trying to free himself.

‘Stop it,
Jerome! You must stop!’

Before he could
succeed in shaking her off, the clatter of feet, which had been
growing louder, gave place to an eruption onto the gallery above of
several persons.

In the fresh
light that came with them, Flo made out two of them as male, and
shrieked for assistance.

‘Help me, pray!
Help me hold his lordship off!’

There was a
slight pause, followed by an immediate cacophony of voices, and a
flood of bodies into the confined space.

In a moment,
Florence was able to give up her charge into the hands of two
able-bodied individuals, one of whom she recognised as Jerome’s
valet. The other she recollected as one of the footmen.

‘Damn you,
Digmoor, let me go!’

‘No, my lord, I
cannot.’

Then came the
querulous tones of the butler. ‘My lord, what are you about?’