Page 3 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

‘I do … but …’

Oscar gave a crooked smile. ‘But? You express uncertainty about my romantic intentions?’

‘You consider dragging me into the shadows of a church romantic?’ I raised a brow.

He chuckled roguishly. With a throat tighter than Granny Moo’s stays, I allowed him to lead me towards the darker recesses near the side wall. I willed my heart to steady. It was impossible.

When the congregation had shuffled out and we were alone, he spun towards me and rested his forehead against mine. I could smell a mixture of cloves, musk, and something that was peculiarly Oscar; it made me think of leather chairs, fine wine and a good book. His eyes were such a deep, profound blue. The shape of his lips, their fullness, was as if they’d been carved by a master.

‘Face the aisle, Florrie,’ he commanded and placed his hands on my shoulders, encouraging me to twist around.

There was an elderly woman tidying a large floral arrangement across from the Lady Chapel. There was the rasp of fabric, movement behind me. A little hammer began to pound my temples. Oscar’s fingers brushed the nape of my neck, sweeping aside the tendrils of hair that had escaped Phil’s careful ministrations, leaving a trail of fire.

Just as I wondered if anything more was going to happen, something cold struck my chin, then slithered down my dress. I gave a little cry, and before I could see what it was, Oscar’s fingers circled my neck.

‘This is for you,’ he whispered against my ear, his lips caressing the very edges of my lobe; the brush of a faery’s wing. ‘A necklace to wear and think of me. If I can’t literally be in your heart, I want to be as close to it as I can.’

I looked down and beheld a shining chain bearing a small gold cross.

Before I could examine it properly, his lips pressed against my neck. Warm, seeking, they nudged my head to one side and ever-so-gently explored, pausing at the top of my collar. I stiffened, eyes flashing towards the oblivious old woman.

‘Oscar, you mustn’t.’ I tried to wriggle away, but Oscar held me fast. His lips were silken ribbons, soft, caressing. My eyelids fluttered as his liquid tongue travelled back and forth, back and forth from my ear to my nape, filling me with a burning heat that surely had no place in church. ‘What if we’re seen? We’ll cause a scandal.’

‘Hush. I never cause scandal,’ he murmured. ‘Only gossip.’ His tongue ceased its exploration, only for his lips to replace it, insistent now, pushing the fabric of my dress down, down, seeking access to the soft parts betwixt jawline and collarbone. Oscar groaned, a primal sound that found an answer in my molten centre. I felt his teeth, a pinch of skin, an exquisite pain. It was the most sensuous bite I could ever have imagined.

My head fell back against his shoulder, my lips parted, and my eyes flew open. Above, the stained-glass saints glowered in a rainbow of disapproval. All modesty fled. I tried to remember who I was, where I was, but sensible thoughts wrestled with yearning (for what? I had to put a stop to this …) and, as my eyes closed, were lost. Dear God, I’d become a blasphemous wanton with a heaving bosom, an angel who’d lost her halo indeed. Ungodly thoughts crowded my head and my body burned in my desire for more. More.

A wheezing cough drew us apart abruptly as the old woman shambled up the aisle. Whether or not she saw what we were doing, I don’t know.

I flushed with guilt and Oscar began to laugh.

We walked up the aisle, our stifled giggles making us collide with each other and the pews. With no Father Bowan to explain to or even bid a merry Christmas, we ran towards where the boys waited by the Sir Benjamin Guinness statue, shivering and very annoyed.

Phil ushered us inside the house and helped me remove my coat, her face filled with questions as she tried to catch my eye. Hearing us, Mother came into the hall, hugged Billy and James and guided us into the drawing room and the crackling fire.

‘How was Father Bowan today?’ asked Father, rising to shake Oscar’s hand.

‘Like all people who try to exhaust a subject,’ began Oscar, ‘he exhausted his listeners.’

‘Oscar!’ I exclaimed in mock outrage as Father laughed, shaking his head and resuming his seat. He invited Oscar to sit opposite and poured him a brandy.

Alice pointed at my necklace. ‘Where’d you get that?’ She didn’t miss a trick, that one. Setting aside the holly she’d been fiddling with, and with more delicacy than I expected, she picked it up in her fingers, turning it first one way, then the next.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ I said. ‘It’s a Christmas present from Oscar.’

There were quickly stifled exclamations.

‘Your name’s engraved on it,’ said Alice, turning to stare at Oscar. ‘You must really like Florrie.’

‘Alice …’ I cautioned.

‘Oh, but I do.’ Oscar launched himself out of the chair and came to my side. ‘Almost as much as myself.’

There were guffaws.

One by one, with barely suppressed excitement on the part of my sisters and Mother, and feigned indifference from the boys (Father didn’t leave his seat), they examined the necklace, Oscar’s presence restraining their comments.

‘It’s lovely.’