Lost With a Lord

by Emily Murdoch

  Her treacherous heart hoped he would continue with the words: and the last. But they didn’t, and she felt embarrassed to ask whether she would be the one and only one.

  “You know,” she whispered, conscious of the way her breasts moved as she spoke, leaning on her side. “This is the most perfect moment I have ever known.”

  Now her heart was beating faster, faster as it was when they had made love, but there was no ache growing between her legs, but hope growing in her heart.

  “I could never have known how this would draw us together,” he was saying. “I feel closer to you than I do with anyone in England.”

  Florence giggled, and nudged his nose with hers. “My Lord George, you are closer to me than anyone in England!”

  He smiled, and smiling, kissed her full on the mouth. She closed her eyes briefly, losing herself once more in his intoxicating kiss. This was love, what else could it be? Every inch of her longed for him, but not just his body but his mind, his laughter, his company.

  She had fallen head over heels for the Lord she was lost with.

  “I hope,” he said quietly, breaking the kiss, “you are not too sore.”

  She shifted slightly, and felt nothing but a warm, stretched feeling. “No,” she replied quietly. “Nothing but joyful tiredness.”

  George chuckled. “I can completely agree on that score; I think I forget, sometimes, that it is the middle of the night!”

  They relapsed into silence, and Florence took the opportunity to rake over his features: those dark eyes, that strong jaw, the broad shoulders that had moved above her, ready to take possession of her – there was no one like him, no one like her lost Lord.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.” He had spoken softly, breathing the words rather than speaking them, and his eyelashes fluttered with heavy tiredness – so he did not see the jolt of love and contentment flash across her face.

  Florence took a deep breath. Once this was said, there was no going back. There was no returning from this declaration, and his reaction would completely undo her or confirm a lifetime of happiness. Her eyes dropped to his chin, unable to look into his eyes as she said, “I think the only thing that could prevent me from returning to Italy would be meeting someone I simply could not leave.”

  For ten whole seconds she held her breath, waiting for a response.

  None came.

  “George?” She murmured his name as she lifted her gaze to his eyes – and found them closed. “George?”

  The frenzied breathing that they had both shared had settled now into a regular rhythm in her, but had descended into sleep in her companion.

  Florence smiled indulgently. There would by more than enough time for that conversation in the morning.

  8

  George wasn’t exactly sure what it was that woke him. It could have been the thin sharp beam of sunlight that found its way through the ragged curtains at the window. It could have been the searing squawks from the seagulls soaring past the door. But most likely, it was the feel of another with him.

  Eyes opening slowly, it took a moment for him to recognise his surroundings. A dirty floor – and a chair that was overturned, roughly made and scarcely like anything from his rooms at all.

  He was lying on a mattress with a warm and lithe body in his arms, and the sounds of the riot that had forced them there had disappeared.

  The body stirred, and a curl of dark hair moved across Florence Capria’s face. George smiled to see it, and luxuriated in the feeling of her feet entangled beside his. Who would have thought that he could leave his home looking for a courtesan, and discover a woman closer to a lover than a stranger?

  A lover who was waking up.

  “Good morning,” whispered George gently. He tilted his head back, to better look at her, and marvelled once more at her beauty. The odds of meeting such a woman anywhere were astronomical: but here, at the London docks?

  “Morning?” came the sleepy reply from his companion. “Morn – mio Dio, where are we?”

  Whether it was panic or just plain confusion, George did not know, but she flailed slightly and leaving his comforting embrace, fell off the mattress onto the floor.

  “Ouch!”

  George could not help but laugh. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he surveyed the scene: a beautiful and completely naked woman lying on the floor, looking up at the ceiling in complete confusion.

  “We are hidden away in our own private island,” he said, his voice deep and his eyes unable to look away from her perfect form. “We are lost, I am afraid to say, and will probably have to search for our way out. We are two lost souls who found refuge together.”

  Her startled eyes softened as the memories came flooding back. “My Lord George, Buongiorno! It is molto bene to – scusa, Italian always comes more naturally to me this early in the morning. And speaking of which: exactly what time is it?”

  For a spilt second, George did not want to tell her. “What care we for the time? It does not matter what the hour is, as long as we are happy.”

  Rising, Florence picked up his greatcoat and wrapped it around her, removing his pleasure in seeing her, but giving him a new delight in seeing her engulfed in his own garment.

  “I am happy,” she said honestly, with a frankness that George was still becoming accustomed to. “You are – you are a very great man, George. Last night was . . .”

  Her voice trailed away; whether due to sensibilities or qualcosa, he did not know. All he knew was that he wanted to repeat the experience, again, and again – for the rest of his life, perhaps.

  But this was madness, what was he thinking? He pulled a hand through his hair to try and rid his mind of this ridiculous thought. Marry Florence Capria? Marry a woman who he met less than twenty-four hours ago? He was mad!

  “. . . do not you think?”

  George shook his head as though shaking water from his ears. Concentrate, man.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said politely. “I am afraid hunger caused my mind to wander.” And now that he thought about it, he really was starving. “What did you say?”

  Florence smiled, and as one corner of her mouth curled, George found his stomach lurched. “I said, signore, that as the riot seems to have dissipated, we should probably – I mean, we cannot stay here, can we?”

  He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say, of course we can: we can stay here as long as we like, and we can make love again, and you can tell me all about Italy, and I can tell you about the ton, and we can laugh together, and entwine our lives.

  “No, no. We cannot stay here.” George hated himself for giving in to propriety, but what choice did he have? A gentleman and a lady, sharing a room for the night? Even if they had not indulged in each other’s bodies, it would have been scandalous.

  The awkwardness felt by both was tempered with the hot memories of just a few hours before. George wanted to watch her dress, wanted to take every moment he could with her, but knew by the upward fluttering of her eyelashes and the slight flush that tinged her cheeks as she gathered up her chemise that Florence would not like it.

  And what she liked seemed essential now. His every action revolved around her, his very senses seemed attuned to her and nothing else. When he turned his back to stare at the wall, he heard his greatcoat fall from her shoulders to the floor, and he clenched his fist and almost groaned aloud at the thought of what he could see if he just tilted his head.

  The temptation was great, but he was strong, and within five minutes the two lovers had been replaced by Miss Florence Capria and Lord George Northmere.

  “It does sound quiet,” she said, eyes flickering from one side to the other as she peered through the cracked window, pushing back dingy curtains. “Do you suppose there is any chance the fight could be continuing elsewhere?”

  Another chance to keep them there for longer, another temptation: but George was strong. He swallowed, and said, “No, I think the violence has run its course: either they are a
t home, nursing their wounds, or else the Bow Street Runners have most of them in their cells. Whichever it is, we should be safe.”

  They dragged the chest from the door after Florence had rescued her luggage from it, and George drew back the bolt. The sound rang out in the silence, and Florence shivered.

  “It is hard to believe there is a world outside that door,” she whispered. She was incredibly close to him, her shoulder touching his own. “It is as though we built our own world in here, is it not, Lord George?”

  Her tongue seemed to caress his name, and George closed his eyes briefly and saw the arched back, the pleasure-drunk eyes, those red lips open and panting his name.

  “Yes,” he said jerkily, eyes snapped open and attempting to focus on the current Miss Florence Capria who was standing before him. “And yet . . . Miss Capria, would you allow me the honour of escorting you home?”

  Was that disappointment he saw in her eyes at the more formal name – or was it excitement at the thought of spending twenty more precious minutes with him? How was it possible that two hearts, two bodies, two souls could be so aligned one moment, and then they could return to being perfect strangers the next?

  “That would be lovely,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

  George swallowed once more, and felt a hand slip into his own. With renewed joy, he pushed open the door.

  Both of them flinched at the brightness of the sun as it hit their eyes, and Florence raised a hand to shield her eyes from its glare. George blinked, and looked around.

  They were standing on the London docks, with three ships before them in a line. Seagulls were indeed floating around their heads, and though it was still early, there were a few men already hard at work on the decks on the ships.

  “But – why, that is the very ship I saw last night!” Florence stared at the boat, her brow furrowed in disbelief. “Lord George, I do declare that is the very ship I happened upon, and it is going to Italy!”

  It was most unfair, George thought bitterly, that he should be dealt such a blow. To think, they could have hidden anywhere last night, and instead they seemed to have run around in a circle, and now found themselves right in the path of the one vessel in London it seemed to be perfectly calculated to take Florence away from his side.

  He squeezed the hand in his own. “D-Do you think so? One ship much looks like any other, if you ask me.”

  The hand squeezed back, but tugged him forwards. “Nay, I am sure of it! There is one way to find out, of course – come, let us ask the captain – ”

  There was a pain in his stomach now where joy had just moments before been residing. George stared at the ship, the instrument to remove another woman from his side. Had he not suffered enough? Surely it was his turn to be fortunate!

  “Flo-Miss Capria,” he said hurriedly. “Why do we not return to my rooms for breakfast – or we could visit my club, I do not think it is far from here – ”

  But her strength, her determination to discover whether this was the ship in question, was propelling them across the straw strewn street, and before George could even think about finishing his sentence, they were beside the ship.

  “Yes, yes; I remember this flag formation,” Florence was saying, eyes shining as she beheld the ship. “This must be the same.”

  “Can I help you miss, sir?” A gruff voice sounded from behind them, and George felt Florence’s hand slip from his own as she turned to greet it.

  “Good morning, sir,” she said prettily as she curtseyed. George watched as she tilted her head with a smile, and felt a twinge of bitterness course through his heart. “We were wondering whether this ship be bound for Italy, as I think it is.”

  The owner of the gruff voice was just as gruff on the outside; a rough leather jacket covered what appeared to be many layers, and a straggly beard covered the face, which nodded. “Yes ma’am, this one be bound for Italy, leaving this midday.”

  The joy that spread across Florence’s face as the man stumped off onto the ship told George absolutely everything he needed to know.

  Evidently that moment between them last night had been more precious to himself than to her. It had meant more to him, fool that he was, and though he had danced with ideas of marriage, she was even now planning her escape from him.

  “. . . which is the most incredible luck, do not you think?” she was saying, smiling up at him broadly. “And I cannot thank you enough, Lord George, for – for protecting me last night.”

  That was all she saw you as, George thought to himself as he tried to smile back at her. A protector. Someone to keep her safe for a night. Just like Honoria, all Florence Capria wants to do is to leave you.

  Ask me to stay, Florence begged him silently as she looked up at his stony face. Where was the man she had seen last night – had given herself to, had abandoned all decorum to make love to? All she could see now was a stern gentleman with little laughter in his eyes, and a silent mouth.

  “I suppose it is a pity it is leaving today,” she said purposefully, smiling at him once more and hoping in her heart he would speak. Stay with me, he would ask. I do not want you to go, he would say. I love you, he would declare.

  But Lord George Northmere did not ask, say, or declare anything of the sort, and Florence felt the shame of it deep in her bones. Surely, if he had felt what she had that moment of ecstasy, he could never let her even think of leaving him!

  “Yes, what a pity,” he said, his voice expressionless and his eyes unwilling to be caught by hers.

  Florence could feel the heat of her temper rise within her, but it was coupled with a sadness she had not known before. To think she should lose her innocence with a man who clearly had no wish to see her again.

  She swallowed, and tightened her fingers around her luggage. “And once I am on the ship, it will be many months until I return to these shores. Perhaps years.”

  A response: any response, anything that could tell her he felt a little of the torment that was raging inside her own mind and heart – but no.

  “You will enjoy Italy, I am sure,” said Lord George Northmere, eyes flickering over the rigging of the ship. “And she is a fine ship, by the look of her. I am sure you will be quite safe.”

  Quite safe – quite safe! Florence wanted to pull his proud and handsome face towards her and kiss it, kiss the life back into him, kiss him until he softened and returned to the George that she had thought she had glimpsed.

  But perhaps that was all it had been: a glimpse, a brief moment when two souls had connected. Not enough to draw any declarations of love or, and here her traitorous heart skipped a beat at the very thought of it: marriage.

  “Yes,” she found herself saying, “quite safe.”

  Ask me to stay, Florence begged him silently. She looked at him, really looked at him: the man whom she had given her heart to, whether she had intended to or not. Here was the man to whom she was completely lost, the man who meant more to her now than anything in the world.

  She knew, in her heart, that if he asked her at this very moment not to go, she would stay. After all those weeks of worrying and thinking about whether it was right for her to return – after finally deciding Italy was the best place for her, it just took a few hours with Lord George Northmere to change her mind and heart.

  He was not like anyone she knew: sensitive yet strong, protective of her and yet impressed with the fire in her. He had not been able to hide that passion from his eyes; how could she have mistaken it?

  A seagull swooped over their heads, and Florence shook hers a little. This did not seem real. Could they really be leaving each other, after such a melding of bodies and souls? Why did he not speak? Did he really have no wish to see her again?

  Could two hearts be so entwined as their bodies were, and yet within hours, walk away from each other?

  9

  “I will speak to the captain for you.” Lord George spoke suddenly into the silence between them, but still did not meet her eye.

  She s
tared at him. Perhaps it was far easier to watch the glint of the sunlight on the water as it rushed towards the dock, than meet her gaze. “Speak – speak to the captain?”

  He did not need to look at her, see the furrow of her brow, to hear the confusion in her voice. She could barely hold back, but waited for him to speak.

  “I am sure that after a brief conversation, I will be able to broker an agreement, gentleman to gentleman, to reduce your travel costs.”

  “Reduce my – my travel costs?” Florence stared at him in confusion. What did he think of her? “My dear man, I am not so poor I cannot afford my own travel: how did you think I was going to pay for it in the first place?”

  A breeze blustered through the dockyard, and the shouting of men was deafened for a moment as Florence herself felt deafened by his silence.

  “I may not be as rich as you,” she said curtly, and this, finally, seemed to draw his gaze towards her, “but I am quite capable of making my own way in the world, grazie.”

  “I did not mean – ” Lord George spoke hastily, but then he cut himself off and stared down at her, a flash of an emotion she did not recognise moving across his face. “I just thought it would be helpful, that was all. It is clear you do not have copious funds, and – ”

  “Copious funds,” Florence repeated. “Clear? Sì, quite clear.”

  They had only been inches apart, close enough to touch, to embrace, but now she took a step backwards and laughed.

  Lord George swallowed, and moved towards her but she continued away from him. “Do not take offence, Florence, not when it is not meant.”

  “Miss Capria to you,” she said, and she saw the hurt in his eyes now, a pain deep and yet so far away from her. “Perhaps you are richer than me, bene, that does not mean I need your charity.”

  “I just – I thought you were not leaving.” His words were not pleading, nowhere near, but they did contain just a little hint of sadness.