Page 56 of My Fair Lord

Ned was in the process of raising his glass to his lips. He tossed back a larger mouthful of his gimlet than was wise and coughed.

“Oh goodness, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that and made you laugh.” Florence patted him on the back then rubbed her hand across his shoulder for good measure. His back was broad and the contours of his shoulder blades rolled beneath her palm. She softened her hand so that her touch was more of a stroke than a vigorous rub. “It is funny, though, I—”

“Excuse me, Miss Wakechild, I have to go,” Ned said, cutting across Florence in the most abrupt manner.

“Mr Blake, are you alright?” Florence was half out of her seat before he shook his head and motioned for her to sit down. Under any other circumstances, it would be the height of rudeness, but his cheeks had turned red and he looked stricken. Coughing did that to a person, of course.

“I’m feeling at the mercy of the sea once again. I shouldn’t have drunk that cocktail. I need to lie down.”

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” Florence said. “Would you like me to accompany you back to your cabin in case you are overcome or get lost?”

Ned raised his brows. “I’m sure I will be able to find my way back to my cabin.”

“Will you come back for afternoon tea? Or perhaps join us for dinner?”

His jaw tightened and he swallowed. “I don’t know. It’s probably best to assume I won’t. Good afternoon.”

“I shall send Dottie to carry any messages tomorrow,” Florence called after him.

He nodded, and walked away stiffly, his gait suggesting he was suffering an attack of nausea. The sea was calm, so she didn’t completely believe he was afflicted by seasickness. Something had upset him but she had no idea what. She searched back through the conversation, certain it must have been something she said; however, she was unable to fix on anything. Perhaps she was wrong and it was simply the combination of cocktail and the sea.

She sat back in her chair and watched the widow and her willing quarry, wishing she might be so daring. Her mind filled with speculation about what intimate acts could convince a woman to tie herself to a man, and more importantly, how she would go about experiencing them for herself.

She finished her cocktail thoughtfully then put her empty glass down beside Ned’s. There was about a quarter left in the bottom of his, along with one solitary ice cube that had not yet surrendered to the inevitable. Florence dipped a fingertip in and licked it. Lime juice made her tongue spasm. The drink was even more potent and sour than hers had been, but it was delicious. No one was watching so she finished it, then looked at the glass thoughtfully. The mark of her lips overlapped the one Ned had left. A feeling of butterflies filled her stomach.

She stifled a giggle that bubbled up inside her and she walked with determination towards the stairwell. An unfamiliar gentleman, accompanied by his valet, drew aside to let her pass and she thanked them absentmindedly. She was feeling uncharacteristically reckless and should definitely go for a nap until the effects of the cocktails wore off, but as she walked along the deck, humming beneath her breath, it was not her cabin she was heading towards, but Ned’s.

ChapterSixteen

When he reached his cabin, Ned lowered himself into the chair and put his head in his hands. His stomach was churning, though it was nothing to do with the cocktail or the sea.

It had been bad enough tearing into the life of the heir presumptive. Worse had followed as the conversation had turned to matters of sex. Why on earth had he brought Stretford into the conversation and linked him in Florence’s mind with lovemaking?

Florence in bed with Stretford was not an image Ned wanted in the slightest. He didn’t really want to think of Florence in bed or in the arms, or even in the company, of any man. The only man he could bear to think of her with was himself. He was absolutely thunderstruck at the realisation. He wanted her.

Badly.

He remembered how every part of his body had felt when they had danced together. He wanted to do that again and more. Listening to her casually talk about raising her nightgown, while at the same time stroking his back, had been almost enough to tip him over the edge into a whirlpool of lust.

He felt unaccountably, intensely angry that Florence viewed marriage as only something to be endured while she was used as a way of increasing her father’s standing. Why did the world insist on women remaining ignorant? Delicacy clearly forbade him from suggesting Florence speak with her sister, but given how affectionate and easy Lord and Lady Griggs were with each other in public, it was fair to speculate that their marital life was likely to be highly fulfilling.

A soft knock at his door brought him out of the pit of self-pity he was descending into. He opened it, expecting to see a steward but Florence was standing there. She looked apprehensive. His heart swelled at the thought that she cared enough to see how he was. He smiled.

“Florence. You didn’t need to come check on me. I’m fine.”

“I didn’t.” She glanced up and down the passageway. “That is, I hope you are feeling better, but I didn’t come here for that reason. Ned, I want you to do something for me.”

He spread his hands wide. “Anything.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

His stomach plummeted. “Anything but that.”

“Why not? I’m not so repulsive, am I?” Florence asked. Her face creased and the sight caused Ned actual pain at the thought that he had given her reason to question herself.

“Good grief, not at all. Far from it. Any red-blooded man would leap at the opportunity. Florence, I don’t think you understand what you’re asking but you need to go.”

She ignored him and stepped into the doorway, preventing him from closing it. “Aren’t you red-blooded?”