George hesitated for a moment. Once he stepped over this line, he would know; he would feel her reaction, she would not need to spell it out in words. Either he was welcome, or . . .
“No,” she said quietly.
Chapter Six
He drew back instantly. “My apologies, Floren – Miss Capria, I did not mean to offend you.”
It was difficult to look at her, difficult to concentrate on anything with her so beautiful and his body so ready to possess her, but George forced himself to look up. To his relief, she did not look angry, or fearful.
“You did not offend,” were her words. “No, I just . . . I cannot. I know you want more, and I cannot give you what you want.”
George smiled at her. “No, I suppose not.”
It was only then he realised his knees were starting to hurt. Rising from the floor, he sat again on the bed, and tried to calm his racing heart. What had he been thinking, after all: trying to seduce a woman?
“Do not misunderstand me,” Florence said suddenly. A nervous smile was on her face, and there was a delicate flush across her cheeks. “It is not that I do not want to. Although it startles even myself to say this aloud . . . well, I feel the desire too. I am not immune to you, signore.”
George knew he should not feel so proud of himself at that moment, but it was almost impossible not to. Preening like a peacock, he reminded himself silently, is not attractive.
“Desire is,” and here he coughed. “You know, I have never discussed this with anyone. Unless you count a very awkward conversation with my father about a decade ago. This sort of thing simply is not discussed.”
Florence smiled. “Less so than in Italy, I think.”
He laughed, and leaned back against the wall. “I would think so, yes! It is just not a topic one discusses, even if one would like to, and you can go through the majority of your youth without the faintest clue that other people have these same feelings – or similar feelings, I suppose.”
“Young ladies do not feel such things!” She said in mock seriousness. “And I do not know how anyone could think such a thing!”
They chuckled together, and then fell into companionable silence.
Florence tried not to look at him too closely. My, but he was a handsome man – and there was an inner quality, something that went deeper than the skin. A goodness, a good heart, perhaps, that was even more attractive (if that were possible) than the outer wrapping.
But she had resisted, she had stayed calm. It would have been too easy to completely lose her head, and throw caution to the wind.
Who would not want to? She tried not to glance, again, at his long legs, the strong hands, the broad shoulders.
“I am grateful,” she said carefully, “that you stopped when you did. And of course, I am disappointed too.”
George’s head jerked up, and Florence could not help but smile. “Now then, you know what I am trying to say. I am not made of stone, George, and it is impossible to ignore this – this whatever it is between us.”
He swallowed. “We do not have to ignore it.”
Florence rolled her eyes. How like a man. “Yes, we do,” she said, rather more severely than she had intended. “I want to fight it, at least. I do not want you to think any less of me.”
His gaze was on her now, and it burned her as though it were a branding iron. “Or you think any less of yourself,” he said, shrewdly.
She shrugged, but his perceptiveness was a little close for comfort. “I think when you make love, you should be in love. Or at least, what you believe is love.”
“And when do you know?” came George’s low reply.
Florence smiled wryly. “When you cannot possibly live without them, I suppose. When being close to them is worth a journey of a thousand miles. When not being with them is torture.”
The sound of rain started to patter down on the roof, and as the wind changed direction, they heard the terrible cries of the mob. Something sparked outside.
“They have set something on fire now,” said George, darkly. “To think that this should happen in England too, of all places. London!”
Florence looked at the light. It flickered slowly through the cracked glass of the window, and it was almost mesmerising in its pattern. Or was it a pattern? If she concentrated hard, maybe she could tell . . .
“. . . almost eleven o’clock,” said a voice from a long way away. “I suppose we shall – Florence, are you asleep?”
Florence almost slipped off the chair as she awoke with a jerk from her doze. “Addormentato? Me? Senza senso!”
He laughed gently. “Come now, you cannot lie to me, I see straight through you. Here: sit beside me. At least here on this mattress, you will have less of a distance to fall.”
She glanced at him. It was not that she did not trust him: there was barely a man she had met who was more trustworthy than Lord George Northmere. The question was, did she trust herself?
George was watching her think carefully, and he smiled. “You will do yourself an injury if you insist on sitting on that chair – here, let’s swap. That way you do not have to feel tempted.”
In such a small space, any movement was likely to bring them together, and Florence found herself holding her breath as he passed her. Sinking onto the mattress was a relief, but it was warm: warm from his body, and she blushed at the very thought of it.
“Now then,” George was saying, “if you do capitulate to slumber, at least you will find that blanket a little softer than the floor.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “You are a very caring man, George.”
For the first time since they had met, she caught a glimpse of him flushing with pleasure. “Few think so, I am sure. It does not cost anything to be caring, and so I try to think of others before myself, when I can. Goodness, that sounds awfully Biblical, does it not?”
They both laughed.
“Perhaps,” Florence conceded. “But I think it is an honest sentiment, and so I will allow it.”
George smiled, and shook his head. “You are quite beautiful, Florence Capria. Do you know that?”
Now it was her turn to flush with pleasure, and she shivered unconsciously. “Do – do you think so?”
He nodded. “More than any woman I have ever met, and that is not kindness, that is the truth.”
Florence could not help but lean forward slightly, and she felt the press of her breasts against her gown, and was glad somehow, hoped somewhere deep inside her he had noticed. Something was rising up within her: something George had awakened when she saw in his eyes that he wanted to kiss her. Something she thought had become dormant, but now was stirring in her as she watched him.
“The most beautiful woman,” he said in a low voice.
What was he doing? Had he not tried this path just an hour ago – and had he not been forced back, kindly but firmly? And yet there did not seem to be any choice in his heart, he had no way forward in his thinking but towards her, towards Florence.
“You are very kind,” Florence’s eyes sparkled as she spoke, “and not a bit handsome.”
She laughed at the surprise on his face.
“I am just teasing, tesoro, you know yourself how you look. I am sure I am not the first lady who has seen the charm in you and wanted to – to do something.”
George’s breath quickened. “You surprise me.”
Florence smiled, and it was a nervous smile, a smile of someone about to embark on a new adventure. “I must admit, I see more attraction in giving in than fighting temptation.”
He must control himself, he must calm down. There was no point in his body stiffening in response to her; this could mean nothing, there was no knowing what she meant. Unless he asked.
“Fighting temptation?” He said, trying to keep his voice level. “What do you mean?”
“Losing myself,” she said almost in a whisper, her eyes not leaving his own. “Losing my inhibitions. I-I feel as though I have known you all my life, George. You
know me better than anyone in the world. Why not . . . why not know me entirely?”
But of course, he had read the signs wrong before. Was he truly going to make that mistake again; embarrass himself at best, and at worst, offend a woman who he not only respected, but was starting to feel a genuine affection for?
Chapter Seven
It took her just one moment to decide. Florence stared at him, stared at the man who she could fall in love with easily, all he had to do was love her, and she wanted him, she wanted him to.
She swallowed. It was now or never. She would never get this chance again, without consequences, without anyone knowing. Time to give in to temptation.
“Perhaps,” Florence said softly, a wicked smile tantalisingly creasing her lips, “you could warm me up, Lord George Northmere.”
It was enough, and he was lost. He leaned forward, brought her hands to his neck and abandoning them there, moved his own to her face as he brought her lips to his.
The warmth of his lips made Florence cry out, but the cry was consumed by his kiss and she welcomed the strength she found there.
This was madness, this was ridiculous, and yet it was so devastatingly right that there was nothing she could do but tangle her fingers in his dark hair, and let him take full possession of her lips.
“Florence,” came his word jerkily as he wrenched himself from her, “Florence, you have to be sure, I do not want you to feel as though I am – I – tell me if you do not – ”
She had no response for him; no response in words. She tugged her arms to bring his handsome face back to hers, and the delicious pressure on her lips returned as he caressed her mouth with his own.
The warm stirrings that had threatened to appear all night, from the moment her eyes had beheld him, now rose like a wave inside her. There seemed to be little point in resisting it, and she had no wish to. This man made her feel something no one had ever discovered in her before – something he did not even know was there.
His hand cupped her cheek as he tilted her head, deepening the kiss. Florence welcomed it, welcomed him. Why should she not? This was something natural, something right, and good, and it made her entire body tingle with an energy she did not understand.
As his tongue gently explored the limits of her lips, she parted them, allowing him entrance, and a spark of pleasure jolted through her body as his other hand clasped her waist.
She sighed, and it seemed to provoke a strong reaction in George who rose to his feet, pulling her upwards with him. Now his chest was pressed against hers, and the hand that had been at her waist was clutching her to him, as though she were a life raft in the middle of a stormy ocean.
“Oh, Florence,” he murmured as his hands lowered to rest just above her bottom. “Oh my – ”
She tried to speak, she tried to respond, but the heat searing from his hands was building in a place she had never explored before, somewhere deep inside her, somewhere between her legs starting to create an ache that she did not know how to satisfy.
His tongue caressed her own, and Florence found her fingers struggling against the buttons of his waistcoat. She did not know what was taking over her, but she wanted to let it – and it wanted this waistcoat off.
A button pinged off the material as she tore at it, impatience driving her wild as his strong hands clasped her buttocks towards him, and she felt something strong, and hard.
“Wait.”
The connection was broken. She looked up, frantic eyes searching his to understand why the roar of passion that had been built between them had been paused.
“George,” she whispered, her hands at the waistcoat that was half on, half off. She moved slightly, and the feeling of his hands still on her made her squirm, and he groaned aloud.
“Florence, wait,” he managed, eyes full of fire as he looked down at her. “I – very much want to – ”
“I know.” Florence smiled shyly at him. “And so do I.”
For a moment, a short second that seemed to prevent breath from being taken, they stared at each other.
“B-but you said before – you said you would not want to lose . . . to give away something,” George was murmuring to her, seeking out some understanding in her face. “I do not understand.”
She took a deep breath. Was she really going to say this?
“I like you, George. More than anyone I have ever – there is something between us, I can feel it,” she said in a rush. “And I do not understand quite what is happening here, but this I do know.” Her eyes found his, and there was warmth and desire and longing and trust in them, all mingled with a fear of what she may say next. “I . . . I want you to make love to me.”
There. She had spoken the words she never thought she would ever say, but with him: oh, it was no sin, no shame if she gave herself to this man.
“It is like we were made for each other,” George breathed, a smile broadening his lips.
Florence did not speak, but pulled gently at the material. The waistcoat moved across the linen shirt, and George, slightly regretfully it seemed, removed his hands from her to allow the waistcoat’s release.
The kiss that followed was fervent and deeper than any that preceded it, and Florence moaned at the sensuality it poured into her. Her hips found his, and she could not help but gasp at the hardness she now knew was his physical desire for her, and she revelled in the power she had over him.
His scrabbling fingers found the laced ribbon at the back of her gown as his lips hungrily poured down onto hers. She laughed in the kiss as she tried, eyes closed and almost entirely lost in his passion, to unbutton his shirt.
Before she knew what had happened, his shirt was off and the heat of his skin was upon her, and she glorified in the closeness.
And then the ribbon was unlaced, and her gown fell to the floor.
“Oh, Florence,” came the jagged murmur from George as he held her. At first she felt the heat of embarrassment as he gazed upon her, naked save for the chemise that barely covered her rounded breasts.
And then she was clasped against him once more, his hands underneath her buttocks, cupping them to his own loins, and her breasts grazed his chest and she cried out at the lurch of pleasure that ricocheted through her, and George was trying to kiss her while her feverish fingers were unbuttoning his breeches, and something was pulling at her chemise, and –
There they were. There they stood. Completely naked.
Florence could not help it; her eyes widened as she saw the masculinity he had been hiding. Of course, she was Italian; the basics were not unknown to her, how could they be with Rome decorated as it was?
But Lord George Northmere was something else: a true man, a strong man, a man who seemed chiselled out of a higher quality of marble than any of the Parthenon of Italy.
His eyes had not moved from her, and Florence fought the temptation to cover herself with her hands. This was who she was: there was no point in attempting to hide the slight curve of her hips, or the soft breasts that rose and fell heavily with her breathing.
“You – you are so beautiful,” George breathed. He seemed unable to say any more, but for Florence, it was enough.
She was not sure how they managed it, their movements tangled in hazy memories of lust and something that could have been love but she did not have time to examine it too quickly. All she knew was that they had been standing, adoring the sight of each other, and now they were lying entangled together on the small bed, limbs heating limbs, hands caressing bodies, and lips kissing any part of each other they could reach.
“Oh George, yes,” she moaned as his hand enclosed her breast and grazed her nipple, building the ache in her loins that seemed damp and warm, and desperate for him.
He did not speak, merely groaned like an animal as she twisted, pulling him over her and nestling him between her legs.
Florence stared up at him, this man who had made her lose all her inhibitions and say yes to the greatest pleasure she had ever known, and she had
thought to speak, to say this to him, to try and explain how happy she was, and then he pierced her and she arched her back in feverish ecstasy as the rhythm he started to build matched the aching waves of pleasure inside her, and then it overwhelmed her and she cried out in frenzied joy and he was shouting with her, and their climax echoed between them in shudders of mingled love.
All she could hear was their breathing, and their hearts beating in time.
George’s head was buried by her neck, and after a minute of just resting, exhilarating in the feeling of each other, he lifted his eyes to look into hers.
“That . . . that was incredible.”
Florence beamed at him, her eyelashes lazily fluttering. “I-I never thought it could be that way. That instinctive. That . . .”
Her words trailed away, but they did not seem to need words anymore. Lying there, twisted around each other and revelling in the heat of their bodies, they remained quiet for another ten minutes.
“You may not believe this,” said George quietly, tilting his body so he lay beside her. Florence turned to look back at him. “But I had never actually met with Teresa before.”
Her eyebrows creased. “That is . . . interesting.”
He smiled and shook his head slightly. “No, you do not understand me. I mean I had never met with her. Or anyone like her. This . . . this was my first time, and I am so pleased I have shared it with you.”
Her heart leapt as she stared at him, open mouthed. “You cannot be serious. I had thought – why, you seemed to know exactly what you were doing!”
George chuckled slightly. “Then I have done a far better job than I had thought!”
Florence laughed with him, and he reached out a hand to grasp her own. “George, I am so overjoyed that . . . mia parola, it is strange to say I feel honoured?”
“‘Tis a very English approach, to be sure,” grinned George, his jawline creasing the dark stubble across his cheeks. “Though unpractised as I am in this situation, I am not entirely sure what the recommended conversation afterwards is meant to be.”
Daring Lords and Ladies Page 5
