Undesirable Liaison (20 page)

The butler served her
with a jellied concoction smelling vaguely of almonds. Florence
stared at it in an uncomprehending way. A posset? He delivered a
similar platter to Lady Langriville, but Jerome wafted his portion
away.

‘Not for me. You may
go, Fewston. We won’t need you further.’

The dowager looked up,
her glance going once more from Florence to her son, and back
again. Flo hastily dug a spoon into the posset. Could her ladyship
feel it? The atmosphere was to Florence so charged it did not seem
possible Lady Langriville could be unaware of it.

The butler left the
room. To Flo’s mingled relief and dismay, the dowager rose.

‘I have eaten enough,’
she announced.

Flo let her spoon fall,
pushed back her chair, and stood up. ‘I will accompany you,
ma’am.’

Lord Langriville was on
his feet. ‘Stay a moment, Miss Petrie.’

‘No!’

It was a plea. The last
thing she could endure was to be alone with him. But she stood
motionless, her eyes on her ladyship’s retreating back.

His voice came softly.
‘But a moment, pray.’

Florence swallowed. He
said no more until Lady Langriville had vanished from sight. And
then he came down the length of the table and stopped close enough
to touch her. But he did not so much as reach toward her hand.

‘You will notice I am
not between you and the door.’

She looked up then, and
the glow at his eyes made muscles contract deep inside her.

‘Lord Langriville—’

‘Jerome,’ he corrected.
‘You called me by my name earlier.’

‘That is n-neither here
nor there,’ she managed, though her voice shook.

‘It may be.’ The rough
note was back, but she knew instinctively it had nothing to do with
anger. ‘This is intolerable, and you know it.’

She did not pretend to
misunderstand him. Almost it was a relief to admit to it.

‘Yes, quite
intolerable.’

In the candlelight, his
eyes glittered now, as if they mirrored the pent-up longing between
them.

‘A decision must be
taken.’

‘By me?’

‘By you, yes. Tell me
now you want to leave Bedfont Manor, and I will arrange it. You
will not lose by it, Florence, I promise you. I will recompense you
as I thought to do at first. And you need not concern yourself
about Belinda. My mother will survive without her.’

He was making it all
too easy for her. Flo’s throat tightened. All she had to do was say
it. She must say it. It was right. It was the only solution. If she
stayed here, she was ruined as surely as if she had given in to
Cousin Warsash.

Jerome said nothing
more. An indignant voice inside her protested. Why could he not
have dismissed her? Why must she be the one to force them apart?
Yet was it not the act of a gentleman, to give her the choice? Oh,
wake up, Florence Petrie! What choice was there? Deadness claimed
her, as she looked him straight in the eyes.

‘Yes, I want to leave
Bedfont Manor.’

***

Turning in the bed yet
again, Florence tried to settle enough to induce sleep to come. In
vain. She had no notion of the time, for the long night hours had
dragged unmercifully. She had refused to shed tears, gulping them
down and cursing herself until the urge to weep her heart out
receded. The leaden feeling persisted nevertheless.

It was, she told
herself, nonsensical to feel downhearted. But a short time ago,
there had been no Lord Langriville to plague her with unwanted
yearnings. What difficulty could there be in returning to a life
that did not include him? It was, after all, merely desire. Had not
Mama made that clear?

‘Never mistake it, Flo
dearest,’ she had said with the bleak misery that invariably
enveloped her, ‘or you will suffer the same fate as I. Should you
feel yourself burning with need for a man— Mama had been nothing if
not forthright! ‘—you must not allow yourself to think of it as
love.’ The usual deep sighs had here been brought forth. ‘Poor
Faustino. I fancied I loved him, and behaved as if he was a god. No
man could live up to such foolish idolatry. I do not blame him for
becoming fatigued with my megrims.’ Mama had patted Flo, as if she
had been the one in need of sympathy. ‘When all is said and done,
it is far better to live without that sort of false adoration.’

Even if one had to sell
oneself instead? Florence had refused that creed. In her
estimation, Mrs Petrie had shown herself as deeply unhappy in the
looser liaison she had accepted from Cousin Warsash. Florence had
no intention of falling into the same trap. Tomorrow she must
leave, it was as simple as that. If she did not, she would end as
Lord Langriville’s mistress.

On the thought, the
aching want that shamed her broke out again. How steeply had she
fallen, to be wholeheartedly wishing to become exactly that! What
sort of example was she for the sister whose interest formed the
most valued part of her ambition? Was she so depraved?

Hating herself, Flo
turned again, thrusting her face into her pillows, as if she might
hide her blushes therein. If only she had blushes! For the warmth
that afflicted her was caused by her desire—for his touch, his kiss
and the deep conclusion she had been taught to understand. Mama had
been explicit, believing her daughter’s safety lay in an exact
knowledge of the facts. Which had proved true, in light of Cousin
Warsash’s villainous proposals. She would have died rather than
endure that fate—with him.

But at this instant, to
her shame, nothing could have so surely satisfied her need than to
be taken in such a fashion by Jerome, Viscount Langriville.

Even as she groaned
aloud her torment, an alien sound from without her chamber
penetrated her mind. Florence turned in the bed, pushing up on one
elbow, her ears tuned to listen hard.

A pattering started up
in her chest. Someone was at her door! There came the unmistakable
sound of the handle turning. Then the slight swish of the wood on
the floorboards. Flo’s heart pumped, her eyes wide against the
enveloping darkness of her curtained bed.

Was it Belinda? Almost
she called out. Instinct held her silent. Bel would by now have
spoken her name. She had visited in the night once or twice before,
nervous at being alone. But always she called from the doorway.

There was silence now.
Florence could sense a presence. Its identity shot into her mind,
but the enormity of it struck her dumb with apprehension. She
swallowed painfully, her muscles tightening.

Footsteps crossed the
floor, and there was a sound of shutters opening. Suspicion grew
and Flo could endure it no longer. In one swift movement, she
reached out as she flung herself up, wrenching aside the
bed-curtains.

‘Who is there?’

There was no need for
an answer. Silhouetted in the pallid stream of moonlight, the frame
of a man was clear. Tall and powerful, the figure was clad in a
robe, a heavy fall of hair about its head. Florence gasped,
flooding with a sensation not entirely composed of relief.

‘Jerome!’

He did not move from
the window. Out of the shadows came his voice, muted, a ripple of
intensity within it.

‘Do you believe in
destiny?’

Flo’s limbs were
sagging, her breath uneven in her throat. Words crowded her tongue.
Senseless, automatic words forming questions to which she knew the
answer. Why was he here? What did he want? Why could he not leave
her be? She uttered none of them, caught by the implications of his
question. She answered truthfully.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Neither do I. That
damned ruby has a lot to answer for.’

The muscles in her
throat were taut, and a wicked pulsing had sprung up again in her
veins. Against all hope, all yearning, she tried to avert the
inevitable.

‘Jerome, don’t do
this.’

‘I have to. I’m past
all redemption.’

He drifted, as it
seemed to Florence, towards her. Her heart began to thud, her mouth
went dry, and a flow of heat rolled along her flesh. He grew in
stature as he neared, and the outline of his features became
visible. There was a glitter in his eyes as he allowed the robe to
slip off his shoulders to the floor. Clad only in his nightshirt,
he sank onto the bed.

‘You lied,
Florence.’

‘How?’ she managed,
though her voice trembled. ‘How did I lie?’

One hand moved,
reaching out. Gently he grasped the covers, pulling them from Flo’s
nerveless grasp. He let them fall, exposing her upper body, clad
only in her nightgown.

She had no will, no
strength within her to move, her eyes captured by the glitter of
his. His fingers lightly touched her cheek and she felt their
tremble as they shifted to caress her throat where a pulse
fluttered into life. The fingers moved on, brushed down her breast,
lingered on her stomach, and travelled lightly to rest upon her
thigh.

Florence’s breath
caught, and she saw Jerome’s gaze slide down to her mouth. He
leaned in towards her, so close she could no longer see him as more
than a dark shadow, but for the glow at his eyes. A murmur
came.

‘You don’t want to
leave me. That is your lie.’

Innate honesty would
permit no denial.

‘I know,’ she
whispered.

Then he claimed her
lips and Flo was conscious only of the simmering fire erupting in
her veins. It was as unlike the first drunken kiss he’d taken as it
could be, gently persuasive, seducing her senses until she sank to
the pillows, no longer able to support her own weight.

His mouth left hers,
shifting a path of warm breath along her cheek.

‘I couldn’t let you go,
Florence. I couldn’t let you leave me.’

Awash with sensation,
she let out a soft moan, part of protest, part in longing. The
sinuous murmur resumed.

‘If you’d gone, I would
have followed you. I would have gone to the ends of the earth.’

The words were
intoxicating, and Florence lost all power of resistance. When his
lips claimed hers once more, they quashed utterly the tiny spark of
common sense that told her she would rue the day.

***

Side by side in the
moonlight, Florence could not tell where her black tresses ended
and Jerome’s began, so mingled had they become. He was still, his
embracing arm relaxed, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep.
She lay quiescent, cocooned in a feeling of comforting safety as
her senses returned from the heady heights to which she had been
lured. The respite, if such it was, proved ephemeral. All too soon,
the chill of reality crept through the lulling aftermath of
passion.

A slight physical ache
began as the subsiding heat gave way to numbing cold and the slow
growth of shock at what she had done. Her eyes stared into the
silvery light as she fought off the enveloping waves of
despair.

Beside her, Jerome lay
half wakeful, as yet too enwrapped in the sustaining glow of
conquest to have leisure for the sober demands of consequence. With
single-minded determination, he had pursued the quenching of an
intolerable thirst. For a time he basked in satiation, the rest
held at bay.

But he could not for
long remain unaware of the growing tension beside him. Though
Florence did not move, the stiffness in her at length communicated
itself to his senses. Puzzled at first, he tried to draw her
closer, seeking enlightenment.

‘What is it, Florence?
Are you cold?’

She shook her head, and
Jerome tried for a moment to pretend there was no further need for
concern. But he was unable to ignore it. His fingers caressed her
arm, but she did not respond. He shifted, lifting onto his elbow so
he might seek an answer in the dimness of her face.

‘You are
distressed.’

‘Yes, for I am
ruined.’

Anger and denial rose
up in him. ‘For what do you take me? Do you suppose I will let you
suffer for this? Do you think I won’t take care of you?’

She uttered a desperate
little laugh. ‘Take care of me! How, pray?’

He opened his mouth to
answer, and then shut it again. It was scarce the moment to speak
of pensioning her off. Besides, he wanted her here. He knew
himself, and there was no hope of his being satisfied with a single
coupling. He tried another tack, leaning in to kiss her. She did
not repulse him, which was cheering, but she did not respond.

‘There is no need for
this upset, Florence. I promise you, I will not let it hurt you.
Don’t you trust me?’

Flo tried to still her
fears, for she had consented in this, and it was not therefore to
be laid entirely at Jerome’s door. But the bleak note would not be
suppressed.

‘It is not that I don’t
trust you. I expect nothing from you.’

‘Then what is troubling
you?’

It was his rough tone,
prelude to that hasty temper, and it had the effect of loosening
Florence’s tongue. She sat up, grabbing for any form of covering.
Her hand found the disarranged bedding and she dragged it up and
over her breasts.

‘You need not take that
tone, for I don’t blame you, Jerome. It was as much my doing as
yours, but—oh, I don’t know how to make you understand.’

‘Try.’

A heavy sigh escaped
her. ‘I cannot, for it must involve a recital of my whole
history.’

Jerome reached out and
seized her wrist. ‘Then recite it, for I won’t be put off. Matters
have proceeded to this extreme, and there is no turning back now.
You are bound to me in some sort, and there need be no secrets
between us.’

He pulled her hand to
his mouth and kissed it, holding fast to her wrist. The gesture
caused a lurch at Flo’s stomach, and she turned her hand, touching
her fingers to his lips. Jerome drew one fingertip into his mouth
and sucked at it. Florence was conscious of reawakening in her
loins, and she could not withhold a little moan of protest. He
released the fingertip, and his teeth gleamed in a moonlit
smile.