Lost With a Lord

by Emily Murdoch

  Florence found her heart softening, despite herself. Here, then, was the emotion that had been lacking before. It was still there: that connection they had, that they had experienced so wantonly, that they had relished in just hours before.

  She glanced up at him through her dark eyelashes, and saw that heady mixture of strong confidence and self-consciousness. Here was a man, the ideal of the Italian: bold and courageous, with raw emotion threatening to overwhelm at any moment.

  “You said last – last night,” said Lord George, drawing closer to her, causing that heart, that treacherous heart, to start beating faster again. “You said you would not leave England. I hoped – thought, I suppose, that you would stay.”

  “Stay?” She breathed.

  A pressure on her hand: it was his own, and it was resting on hers in a way that made her spine tingle.

  “Stay,” he repeated, his dark eyes pouring into hers.

  Florence found her breathing was shallow now, and rapid, completely out of her control. Perhaps it was his presence, perhaps the firm grip of his hand that hours ago had been caressing every part of her, perhaps the overwhelming – and welcome – idea that he was asking her to stay.

  But was he? She blinked as she considered that handsome face, and tried to think. Had he asked her directly, or had he just . . . said it?

  “Lord George,” she said, shakily, “are you asking me to stay here in England?”

  She watched him swallow, and her heart slowed once more.

  “Staying is certainly an option,” he said in a deep voice. “One that I would like you to consider.”

  Florence dropped her gaze. “So you are not asking me to stay. You are merely pointing out staying here is a choice that I could make. Not that you would . . . would like me to make it.”

  If only she could see inside past those dark curls, and into Lord George Northmere’s mind. He was thinking, and thinking hard, but his thoughts were so rapid he did not even seem to have the power to transfer them to his tongue.

  “It really is your choice,” he said finally. “Of course I would like it if you stayed, but you must make the decision for yourself.”

  It was only at that moment, as his words rang in her ears and a few men passed them on their way to their day’s labour, that Florence understood what she had been hoping for.

  A proposal of marriage was unlike anything she had expected to receive on that blustery Tuesday, but since last night – since she had opened herself to him, lost all thought of consequence and just laid herself bare to desire; then he must have known what she had wanted. To be with him all the days of her life. To be with him all day and under him every night. To be his wife.

  The laugh that she forced sounded hollow and harsh, even in Florence’s own ears. “I will need a great more security before I give up on returning to my homeland, my lord!”

  She removed her hands, and the moment was over.

  “Security?” Lord George blinked at her, utterly lost. “What kind of security?”

  Mio Dio, marriage was so far from his mind than even when presented with it as an option, he was completely lost!

  “It is of no matter,” Florence said haughtily, though her throat hurt from trying not to cry. “I will speak to the captain now, and organise my things to be brought here directly. I no longer have any need of your assistance, Lord George Northmere. Good day.”

  “Good . . . good day?”

  She barely caught his words on this breeze as she had taken three steps towards the ship in question – but where she had hoped to hear remorse, or even (dare she even admit it to herself) words of love, she was to be disappointed.

  “You are leaving then? You are actually going?”

  Florence turned on her heels and stared at him. “What?”

  “I just,” said Lord George, and his voice cracked with emotion that finally met the surface. “I tried to convince myself I was not the reason why everyone left: my parents, my brothers, Honoria. And yet here you are, leaving me!”

  “Going, not going, staying, not staying!” Florence almost exploded with frustration. “What business is it of yours? I asked you for your opinion, you refused to give it, and in that moment, you forfeited any right to demand I act in any particular way!”

  She stared at him, and noticed his fists were clenched; perhaps in anger, perhaps in frustration, she could not tell. She did not know Lord George Northmere well enough to discern.

  Few did. George tried to bottle down the confusion and the desperation to keep her with him, and fought the pathetic desire to beg her to remain with him. Had he not said all he could?

  “I am asking you to stay.” The words had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and a sense of relief washed over him as he did so. At least now she knew how she had touched his heart.

  But for some reason, there was nothing but bitterness on her face.

  “Stay. That is all you can offer me, ‘stay’. George, I want . . . surely you can see I want more?”

  There was a stain of pink on her cheeks now, and the wind tugged at her hair, drawing a curl across her face that masked her embarrassment.

  George stared at her. Could she be asking him to . . . no. “What can you possibly expect of me?” He spluttered. “Marriage? I have known you but one day, what madman does such a thing?”

  “It is not so strange,” Florence shot back, and George felt a stirring within him, a flutter of hope, of confusion, of desperate longing and acceptance that he can never have her – a medley of pain and pleasure he could not decipher. “But evidently, no. You do not wish it.”

  Now was the moment, George knew, to speak up. To say that throwing caution to the wind and ignoring convention, of finding his hope and happiness in her forever would be his delight, that he loved her.

  Loved her. Did he love her? Was this raging passion love, or was it just lust? How could he tell? Could he really commit himself, forever, to a woman he had met less than a day ago, on a hunch?

  The flicker of joy in Florence Capria’s eyes died. “I see.”

  Panic flooded his lungs. “No – no, you do not!”

  “‘Tis of no matter,” she said dully. “I cannot change my plans simply because I got lost with you, and neither can you, I see that.”

  George didn’t have the words. “No, no I do not mean – but I also do not mean – Florence, wait!”

  The woman that sparked such intense emotions in him was walking away, and in a desperate moment of panic, his hand shot to his pocketbook.

  If he could not be with her, at least he could provide for her.

  “Here; here take it.” One inelegant movement tried to place a ten pound note into her reticule, but she shook him off.

  “Have I not told you before? I do not want your charity.”

  Exasperated, he tossed his head. “You know full well I do not intend it as charity, it is more a – a sign of my goodwill, I suppose, from friendship. From gratitude, for last night. . .”

  At first, Florence did not entirely catch his meaning. She stood there silently, her hair unpinned and freely flowing down her back like a waterfall, the cold breeze chilling her hands as the realisation of what he meant chilled her heart.

  “Your pity and your misplaced gratitude for what happened last night,” she spat, that Italian temper that she saw no reason to hide now rising up through her throat leaving a bitter taste and overcoming her tongue, “are not wanted, my Lord.”

  She turned, barely able to see, completely unable to think, just able to feel. The ship seemed to sway before her, or was that her own luggage moving side to side? Was he really trying to –

  “Florence!”

  But she was on the gangplank now, and she was moving quickly, and the captain’s hands were reaching out and in a split second she was aboard, ready to disappear, ready to leave this wretched island, once and for all.

  “I suppose I should know better!” His words rang out into the morning air, and Florence winced to he
ar the bitterness and hurt in his tones. “No woman of good reputation would ever get lost with me; you must be a courtesan after all! Here, Miss Florence: your earnings.”

  And then banknotes, fluttering and cascading in the air, great shrieks and shouts from others walking up the dockyards, and the ship moved, and as Florence was taken away down the Thames she did not look away from the tall man with the strong shoulders and tormented eyes.

  10

  The door slammed shut.

  “Why the long face, you rascal?”

  George’s head snapped up, but it drooped down again when he saw who it was.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked bad-temperedly. “I thought you would be too busy at Lady Johnston’s ball?”

  His elder brother strode across the library and threw himself gracefully into an armchair, his legs dangling over one of the sides. “Well, I had had my fill of dancing by the time young Rebecca came along, and when I discovered she was engaged to dance with young Simon for the rest of the evening, I gave it up as a lost cause.”

  George stared at the fire in the grate instead of his brother. When he had told his housekeeper he had wanted to be alone, she had insisted on bringing him a large brandy – and now, it seems, she was perfectly happy to let his brother through to disturb him.

  “I want to be alone,” he said, the phrase dull on his tongue, he had repeated it so often that day. “Apologies, Luke, but I am simply not up to company this evening.”

  He did not need to look up to see the smirk. “Teresa turn you down, then?”

  “What?”

  His brother laughed at the swift reaction, and George scowled at him. “Why are you here, really, Luke?”

  The Marquis of Dewsbury shrugged. “When I recommend a dearest family member visit a courtesan, dear boy, do you think I am going to let the matter rest there? Oh no, it is my duty to see how the visit went!”

  “You just want the gory details,” George muttered, turning his head back to the fire and loosening his cravat from his neck.

  Luke grinned. “You bet I do.”

  George rolled his eyes. It had been exactly this way when they were children: George desperate for solitude in a house thronging with people at all times, and Luke had relished teasing his little brother.

  “I have no wish to talk about it,” he muttered as a log fell in the grate. “Please, Luke. I . . . I am not feeling well.”

  Luke stood up lazily, and looked around the room for the brandy. Finding nothing but a whisky decanter, he strode over and started to help himself. “Now then, that sounds a little like lovesickness, if you ask me.”

  George did not answer. All he could hear was Florence’s words ringing in his head: “I cannot change my plans simply because I got lost with you, and neither can you, I see that.”

  What had he done – had he thrown away the best chance of happiness he was ever to see, and just for the sake of propriety?

  “Your silence suggests I am right.”

  George shook his head as Luke made his way back to his armchair, but as he sat down, he affixed his younger brother with a rather more serious look.

  “You did not fall for Teresa, did you? You have to understand, George, you are just one of many for her, and you cannot – ”

  “It is not her,” George intercut.

  Luke stared at him for a moment. “Then – by God, then who?”

  The flames seemed like a much safer place to look, but each tongue of fire that crept up the grate reminded George of the locks of hair that flowed freely across the mattress when he had laid Florence down, completely naked, ready for him, welcoming him in.

  It was too much. He turned away, and saw his brother had a look of genuine concern on his face.

  “George, you know you can confide in me,” Luke said quietly. “I know I jest worse than the Regent himself, but we are brothers.”

  George snorted. “Not that that has meant much to some people.”

  His brother rolled his eyes. “Enough. It is time you, Tom, and Harry started to have a conversation about that, but this is not the time. Tell me about her.”

  There was no way to prevent it. George smiled as he remembered that ridiculous meeting, of her tottering over the edge, almost falling into the Thames – of the mob that grew after their fight, of the flight around the docks, and finally, getting hopelessly lost and finding shelter in the smallest of rooms, that would soon hold the greatest of joys.

  “Her name,” he said eventually, “is Florence. I met her at the dockyard, whilst looking for Teresa – who, by the way, is almost impossible to find.”

  “It does not appear to have prevented you from an interesting evening,” remarked Luke.

  George smiled, and finally the happiness and pain that Florence had sparked in him leaked out. “You know, I think it was the most interesting night of my life. Florence is Italian, you see – fiery temper, do not cross her, take it from me – and we had to take refuge in a . . . well, I think you would call it a hovel.”

  “A hovel?”

  “It was more of a servant’s room, but it was dank, and small, and yet fit for purpose. All we wanted to do was hide whilst the mob ran out of energy outside.”

  Luke stared at his brother as though he had never seen him before. “Good God man, that sounds terrible! Did the Bow Street Runners come and swiftly disperse them?”

  George shook his head. “No, we were there all night.”

  “This is the most perfect moment I have ever known. I could never have known how this would draw us together. I feel closer to you than I do with anyone in England.”

  Luke smiled broadly. “I would never have thought it of you, George; you seduced her, did you not?”

  It seemed ridiculous to attempt to lie, so he replied, “Yes.”

  His glass of brandy was beside him on a small table, and he drew it to his lips. Perhaps the fire in his throat would distract him from the pain in his chest at the thought of that incredible night.

  “My word, but that is – George, I am impressed!” And Luke looked it. Eyes wide open, smile still there, he stared at his brother in amazement. “I never thought you would be the one to tup a girl in an alley!”

  “It was not like that!” George said sharply. “Florence is no girl you pick up off the street, she is practically a lady in Italy – and it was not an alley. Florence is – speaking with her was like no one else I have ever . . . do not speak of her like that.”

  Silence fell between them for almost a minute as the two men stared at each other; one angry and hurting, the other merely intrigued.

  And then Luke’s smile faltered. “Oh, George. You fell in love with her.”

  “Is it any wonder?” George said stiffly. “I tell you, England does not hold the like. She is everything I could ever – witty, passionate, beautiful, Luke, so beautiful that at times it hurt to look at her. And when we made love . . .”

  His voice trailed off as his eyes were dragged, unconsciously, back to the fire. It was almost like looking at her, that untamed fire.

  “So when will I meet her?” Luke asked jovially. “Before the wedding, I hope.”

  A sharp pain stabbed through George’s heart again, and he sighed. “You will not be meeting her.”

  “Oh, now come on, George, I promise I will keep my hands to myself!” Luke’s protestations fell silent as he watched his brother’s face. “There is not going to be a wedding, is there? God’s teeth, George, what did you do?”

  “What did I – what did I do?”

  “You cannot tell me you did not offer marriage.”

  George flushed. “It was not – it was a great deal more complicated than that, Luke!”

  His brother swore quietly under his breath. “George, you meet a woman who you say is your ideal match, you spend a supposedly heady evening of lovemaking and conversation, and then you abandon her at the docks the next morning and come home to be morose?”

  “I told you, ‘tis complicated,” George returne
d, glancing at his brother as he said, “At this very moment, she is on a ship to Italy.”

  Luke sighed and shook his head. “I would have thought you could stop her, if you had wanted to.”

  George flinched at the memory of his own words. “Of course I would like it if you stayed, but you must make the decision for yourself.”

  “No, I do not think so,” George said firmly, and the lie bit into his soul. “She was determined to go.”

  Luke took a large gulp of whisky, and then affixed his eyes on his brother. “George Northmere, you absolute fool. Any woman willing to open herself up like that – emotionally, yes, as well as with her body – is worth keeping. Worth pursuing. You know where she is, and you know where she is going. What the devil are you doing here?”

  Florence’s lungs were filled with salty air, but the headache that had dogged her all day persisted, and she raised a heavy hand to it as she looked out across the sea on the deck.

  Surely it would disappear soon; perhaps when they were in open waters. She had not realised just long the Thames was, how much time it would take for them to reach the ocean. Even now, they were still hugging the coastline of this wretched country.

  “Where are we?” She asked a passing shipman, who bowed his head before he answered.

  “Just outside Dover, my lady, picking up some supplies before we head out to sea.”

  He did not stay long enough for her to question him further, but his words were sufficient. Dover for supplies, and then Italy bound: as far away from Lord George Northmere as it was possible for her to be.

  The thought of him wrenched her stomach, and she drew her pelisse around her more tightly. Try as she might, it seemed absolutely impossible to ignore the frequent thoughts that led her back to him.

  Perhaps if he had been less handsome. Perhaps if he had been more sure of himself; a brute, rather than a man with great sensitivities, obvious compassion, and a clear desire for her.

  For every part of her.

  Florence shook her head. This was madness, madness! He had said one true thing in that terrible argument on the dock: they had only met days before, and who decides to marry a person they had only just met?