Page 28 of Dare it all for Love

Chapter 8

Dear Aisling,

Ash adores the waistcoat, naturally. Where in heaven’s name did you find that gruesome shade of orange? I swear you two have the most lamentable taste. The sunflowers were extraordinarily well embroidered, though, I must admit. You have a spectacular talent. I only wish you wouldn’t display it quite so vividly upon Ash’s person. He really does not need the encouragement and I believe my eyes are suffering under the glare. If I am forced to wear spectacles, I shall hold you entirely responsible.

I have no information pertaining to Bainbridge and waistcoats with parrots, further than hearing from Arabella that he prefers parrots stuffed and mounted as a rule.

We long to see you too, darling, and I swear I will wait for you to commit my dare. I may need a partner in crime.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Vivien Anson (daughter of Aashini and Silas Anson, Viscountess and Viscount Cavendish) to Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick).

Early hours of the 16th of August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

Florence closed the door behind her as quietly as she could manage. Grace was sleeping at last. She’d known her friend had been unhappy by the way she had laughed and chattered so determinedly. Though she was no wallflower, Grace was inclined to be reserved, which always made her sharp sense of humour even more amusing, as it took one by surprise. Not that she was shy, but Grace preferred to observe people and enjoyed listening to others talk. If she joined in a conversation, her input was always unexpected and intelligent. Grace had a way of seeing the world differently from other people, certainly from Florence, who would admit to sometimes seeing things as rather black or white rather than shades of grey.

Now, though, Grace was deeply unhappy and afraid, not that she would say as much. She was too determined to be brave, to shoulder the burden of her secret alone. It broke Florence’s heart to see it, and she wished she could do something, anything to help her, but she simply did not know how. She had promised to stand beside Grace when the time came and she told her parents, though Grace had stoically shaken her head and kissed Florence’s cheek in thanks for the offer. So Florence had done what she could and stayed with her, talking and keeping her company until she had finally fallen asleep.

Florence smothered a yawn. It must be after midnight for she had heard the chimes what seemed like ages ago. As if on cue, a clock somewhere struck one o’clock. Wearily, Florence turned to walk back to her room, which was two doors down, and found herself staring up at Henry.

She gave a little squeak of alarm and clutched at her heart. “Lud, but you gave me a start! You ought not sneak up on a person in the dark.”

“I didn’t sneak,” he said, an indignant tone to his voice, which sounded different than usual. “And what the devil are you doing wandering about in the dark, in your nightgown? Whose room is that?” Florence narrowed her eyes at him. She could smell brandy on his breath and realised he was foxed. It might be best if he did not know she’d been with Grace, for he’d want next to know why and she did not want him watching Grace with curiosity.

“None of your business who or why,” she said crisply, stalking past him.

It was really too awful of him to ignore her all blasted night and then interrogate her, the wretched man.

His hand grasped her wrist before she got two paces and she stilled, turning to face him. The feel of his warm hand upon her skin was electrifying. All she could think about was how it had felt to put her hands on him earlier. How on earth she’d had the nerve to slide her hands beneath his shirt she would never know, but she wouldn’t ever regret it. Lord, but it had felt marvellous. His skin had been so hot, and surprisingly silky, the play of hard muscle beneath her hands so invigorating she’d wanted to tear his shirt from his body, and would have done if he’d not gone all honourable on her and told her she was making a mistake, the insufferable lummox.

“Whose room is that?” he asked again, an intense expression in his hazel eyes which seemed far darker in the dim light of the hallway.

“What does it matter to you?” Florence demanded. “It’s not as if you want me, is it?”

He made a harsh sound that sent little prickling sensations shivering down her spine.

“Not want you?” he repeated, a dangerous note to the words that had all her instincts standing to attention.

“No,” she said, when a more sensible young woman might have just admitted she’d been chatting with Grace, and they’d lost track of time. “I’m a mistake, remember?”

A sensible young woman would have paid attention to that dangerous note and the matching gleam in his eye and decided a quick apology and faster retreat was in her best interests. Sadly, any sense Florence had been born with seemed to melt into a puddle of warm treacle, alongside anything resembling a brain whenever this irritating, intoxicating man got within twenty paces of her. In those circumstances, provoking him seemed a simply marvellous idea.

“I never said—”

“Yes, you did. A mistake. I remember it quite clearly. So, I may saunter about the house in my nightgown, and visit the devil himself if I so choose, and you may not say a word about it, for it is none of your affair. If I wanted to, I might go outside and dance naked in the fountain, and you could not stop me.”

“Could I not?”

She wondered how his voice had become that low growl. In fact, at this precise moment, he put her strongly in mind of the full-size grizzly bear in the earl’s study. Of course, that one was stuffed whereas Henry was very much alive, but still….

“Do you know why it is a very bad idea to roam about the halls of a house like this in your nightgown, Miss Knight?”

“Hmmm, let me think,” Florence said, making her eyes wide and round and pressing a finger to her mouth in a parody of strong concentration. “Could it be because I might run into some wicked man, who’s had too much to drink and harbours nefarious intentions about what he wishes to do with me?”

She blinked up at him, which admittedly might have been the straw that broke him. It had certainly been calculated to do so. Even so, she was a little startled when he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder.

“Henry!” she said, as loudly and as urgently as she dared. “Henry, put me down this instant!”

“Or what?”