“My lady, you look beautiful.” Mead sniffed. “And it is wonderful to see you accepting invitations, as you are too young to confine yourself within these walls.” She patted Florence’s shoulder. “Now then, you are ready.”
“Thank you, dear friend.” Florence rotated and rushed downstairs, where she found her father lingering in the foyer and checking his timepiece. “Am I late?”
“No.” Papa shook his head, as he tugged on his gloves. From the butler, her father collected her pelisse, which he held for her. “Shall we depart?”
“Indeed.” With shaky fingers, Florence fastened the hook at the collar of her black velvet outer garment. “Barrington asked that we join him in the receiving line.”
“That is because you make your return to society, as well.” Outside, Papa handed her into their coach. As he settled into the squabs opposite her, he unbuttoned his coat, revealing a pistol tucked into his waistband. “All of London celebrates your miraculous recovery.”
“Father, why do you carry a weapon to the impromptu party?” The mere glimpse of the armament gave her a shiver of trepidation. “Do you suspect someone would attempt to harm Barrington, in full view of the guests?”
“My dear, he is not the only one at risk.” Adjusting his garments to conceal the dangerous accouterment, he shifted on the bench. “Your association with Lord Ravenwood presents an additional threat to the villain.”
“Oh?” She swallowed hard as she contemplated her predicament. “How so?”
“Because once you marry, any potential heir would present another barrier to the title, which I believe is the motive.” Papa quieted then met her stare, and what she spied in his gaze chilled her blood. “I think our elusive criminal is, in fact, Lord Ravenwood’s brother Ernest, because he stands to inherit should something happen to Barrington, and Ernest was quick to file the legal paperwork to have his elder brother declared dead in absentia.”
“More’s the pity, because I feel the same, Papa.” And she hated to admit it. “While I hated deceiving you about my illness, I could not, in good conscience, marry Ernest. Have you said anything to Barrington?”
“No.” Frowning, he shook his head. “And I would caution you to do the same, because he needs no further distractions, and I would not have Ernest target you. But I wish you would delay your nuptials until the situation is resolved, as I do not like the idea of dangling you as a carrot before the horse.”
“Barrington does not intend to announce our union, Papa.” And Florence supposed his reasons had everything to do with her protection. “Need I remind you of his motives? He wishes to secure my future, in the event something happens to him. Is that not a noble purpose?”
“Of course, my dear.” Still, her father furrowed his brow. “But what if he merely paints a target on your back, and the villain comes after you?”
“Do not say that.” To distract herself, she picked a speck of lint from her sleeve and settled her skirts, just as the rig came to a halt. “Please, Papa, let it go, if only for tonight. I have waited so long to be reunited with Barrington, and I would enjoy myself.”
“As you wish.” He patted his coat. “But if someone wishes to harm you, they must first get through me.”
On the sidewalk, her father extended an arm, and she rested her palm in the crook of his elbow. Together, they climbed the entrance stairs, and the butler set wide the matching doors.
“Welcome, Lord Braithwaite.” When Barrington turned his attention to her, the air simmered with the usual intensity that marked their previous encounters, as he bent and kissed her gloved knuckles. “And my lady, as always, you are a vision.” With an arm wrapped about her waist, he ushered her into the grand residence. “I would introduce you to some new associates who have graciously offered their support during this difficult time.”
A group of estimable couples lingered in the drawing room, some of whom she recognized, and she curtseyed. “Lord and Lady Raynesford, I am honored.” To Lady Cara, Florence said, “While I know of you, I am truly gratified to share an affiliation.”
“Please, Lady Florence, you must call me Cara, as I just know we are going to be great friends. And I understand your motives for refusing an audience, as I would have done the same had I confronted similar circumstances.” The elegant noblewoman smiled and drew Florence from Barrington’s side. “Permit me to introduce you to my family.” Lady Cara paused before a familiar face. “I know you are acquainted with Sir Ross Logan, but I do not believe you know Lady Elaine, his wife.”
“Hello.” A young and petite blond, Lady Elaine adopted a regal pose. “I am so glad to hear of your recovery.”
“Thank you, Lady Elaine.” Florence dipped her chin. “And I owe you an apology, as I refused to see you when you so kindly paid call.”
“But there are no apologies necessary, given Ross told me everything, and I am so sorry for your troubles, but you have us now, and we will help you.” Lady Elaine stepped aside. “Do you know Lady Rebecca, the Viscountess Wainsbrough?”
“Again, I know of her, but I have not socialized much, in Lord Ravenwood’s absence.” Florence studied the tall and slender brunette. “It is a pleasure, Lady Rebecca.”
“I am so happy to meet you, Lady Florence, when I have heard so much about you.” The viscountess inclined her head. “And I concur with Cara, as I expect we shall make fast chums.”
“I would love that.” Florence stretched upright, as two more ladies who bore more than a passing resemblance joined their group. “Good evening.”
“Hello.” The woman, who sported an empty sleeve pinned to the bodice of her eau de Nil silk gown, extended her hand. “I am Lucilla, the Duchess of Weston, but everyone calls me Lucy, this is my sister Lenore, the Duchess of Rylan, and we are at your service.”
“Upon my word, but I am overwhelmed, Your Grace.” In such impressive company, Florence swayed, and Her Grace of Rylan offered support. “I shall owe you a debt I can never repay.”
“Nonsense, as we are glad to help another couple to the altar.” The duchess of Rylan patted Florence’s cheek. “And with our counsel, you will learn to rule your husband, as all women should. May I address you informally, as Florence?”
“I would like that, very much.” Just as Florence regained her faculties, a mountain of a man approached from behind Lenore, wrapped his arms about her waist, and swept her off her feet.
“What is this business about ruling husbands?” When Lenore shrieked, he laughed. “There is only one place my duchess rules me, and she does so because I allow it. Indeed, I prefer it.”
“Blake, stop it.” Lenore rolled her eyes, as he buried his nose in the curve of her neck. “You will scare Lady Florence.”
“How so, when you constantly claim I am devilishly handsome, and I could not agree more with your assessment?” The duke of Rylan snickered and waggled his brows, as he refused to let go of his wife, and Florence marveled at their outward display of affection. “Now behave, and I shall yield to your masterful talents, tonight, following your usual performance at the pianoforte. After all, you do not want to ruin the relationship between Lord Ravenwood and his bride-to-be, before they marry, do you?”
“Impossible man.” Lenore swatted at him, in play. “And you, of all people, should know I could only improve upon their amity, given your expert tutelage.” With that, His Grace whispered in her ear, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “You are incorrigible.”
“But you love me, anyway.” The look in the duke’s eyes brought the burn of a blush to Florence’s face. “In the end, I always win.”
“Worry not, brother mine.” Lucy rocked on her heels. “As we will instruct Lady Florence in the proper decorum as befits a wife, to her advantage, and Lord Ravenwood shall reap the rewards, just as does my darling husband.”
“Too true, sweetheart, and I am forever grateful.” Another unspeakably beautiful specimen slipped an arm about Lucy’s shoulders and kissed her temple. “Good evening, Lady Florence. I am Damian, t
he Duke of Weston and Lucilla’s most fortunate husband.”
“Are you not the charmer?” Lucilla beamed at Damian, and Florence envied their equally informal and overt connection. “And I shall express my appreciation of your benevolence, when we return home.” She stuck her tongue in her cheek, His Grace flushed beetroot red, and Florence knew not how to respond to the display.
“It is always the same.” Rebecca shook her head. “They love to boast and brag, as they assert their authority, because they truly believe they are the stronger sex, but the truth is we are the mortar that holds the bricks together. Without us, their houses would fall.” She wagged a finger. “Never forget that, Lady Florence. And you must join us for tea, Wednesday next.”
“I would love that.” Just then, Barrington caught Florence’s attention. “Please excuse me, Lady Rebecca.” With a mischievous grin, her fiancé drew her down a side hall. “Barrington, where are you taking me?”
Given her knowledge of the residence, she calmed as he led her to the study. When he closed the door, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. The warmth of his flesh, the tempting taste of his tongue, and the hands she knew so well inspired naught but comfort, and she speared her fingers in his thick, blonde hair. Desire flashed and unfurled, fanning into her limbs, as he nibbled her bottom lip and winked.
“I needed that.” With palms resting on her hips, he nipped her nose. “And you will not take tea with the Viscountess Wainsbrough, because you have a far more important assignation.”
“Oh?” Then Florence recalled the clouds on the horizon. “There is a storm brewing. Will you come to me, tonight?”
“No.” To her dismay and disappointment, Barrington frowned. “I shall wait until we are properly wed.”
“But you know of my fear.” Clutching fistfuls of his coat, she cast him a coy smile. “Would you let me suffer?”
“You survived without me these four years.” He shrugged and pinched her bottom. “Can you not wait another few days?”
“What do you mean?” She blinked as the significance dawned. “The license.”
“My solicitor brought it to me this morning.” Barrington claimed another searing kiss. “We shall be husband and wife, as of this Saturday.”
THE IRON CORSAIR
CHAPTER FIVE
The first rumble of thunder roused Barrington from his study of the real property ledger, and he rubbed his eyes and drained his glass of the last swallow of brandy. Standing, he stretched his back and turned toward the windows, as a flash of lightning cut through the night sky.
After Aunt Esther’s unremarkable impromptu dinner, during which he served as the perfect foil for the Duke of Rylan’s pointed but good spirited jabs, he bade farewell to his guests and his all-too-tempting fiancée and retired to his private domain, to begin his scrutiny of the myriad responsibilities attached to the marquessate. To Ernest’s credit, the finances were in excellent order, and the country estate thrived in Barrington’s absence.
Lady Florence excepted, he realized he could have remained in exile, and no one would have missed him. Another boom reverberated overhead, and he considered his woman. Despite her years, she remained very much afraid of storms, and he recalled the many nights spent in her bed, as he held her while she shivered and wept.
During his self-imposed, four-year banishment, his thoughts always turned to Florence when it rained, because it was her childhood terror that brought them together, however innocently. When yet another clap resounded, he cursed, pulled on his coat, strode into the hall, and veered right at the foyer. In the back parlor, he sprinted to the French doors and ran into the garden.
The wind whipped and howled, and the oaks swayed, as he traversed the narrow path. After exiting the lawn via the rear gate, he charged into the mews.
“My lord, I did not expect you at this hour.” Cecil, the stablemaster, set a bucket of oats in a stall. “Can I help you, your lordship?”
“I need a horse.” It occurred to Barrington that he had yet to purchase a stallion for his use, and he made a mental note to schedule a trip to Newmarket, so he could inspect some prime bloodstock at Tattersalls. “Be quick, please, as the skies appear primed to cut loose at any moment.”
“Aye, sir.” Cecil nodded and scratched his temple. “I recommend the grey from Andalusia, as he is possessed of a calm temperament.”
“Thank you, Cecil.” Barrington started, as another streak of light cut across the sky. “Just hurry.”
Minutes later, the stablemaster led a beautiful beast into the alley. As a flash of light illuminated the cobblestone pavers, Barrington leaped into the saddle, flicked the reins, and steered to the lane. At North Audley Street, he turned left and left again at Green Street, and then he heeled the flanks of the mighty beast.
The first raindrops pelted him, as he drew rein at Woods Mews. A stableman rushed forth and collected Barrington’s mount. “Put him with Lord Braithwaite’s stock.”
“Aye, sir.” The young man dipped his chin and led the stallion into the shelter.
In much the same fashion as Barrington had four years ago, and on countless other occasions, he slipped past the unlocked below stairs gate of the stately Park Lane residence where Florence resided, in London. Just as he recalled, a key remained hidden in a tiny niche to the right of the door, and he let himself inside the dark entry hall.
After securing the bolt, he tiptoed to the stairs, ascended to the main floor, and skulked along the narrow passage to the foyer. Reaching through the darkness, he grasped the polished newel post and almost shouted the alarm when a burst of lightning illuminated his reflection in a mirror. Using the balustrade as a guide, he made his way to the gallery, just as the gentle drumbeat of rain grew to a quick pounding.
Despite his lengthy absence, he could negotiate the residence, blindfolded. Counting his steps, he located the west corridor and hugged the wall, as he continued his advance. At the seventh portal, he twisted the knob and slipped inside the sitting room, where glowing embers and the last flickering flames in the hearth cast a dim glow about the apartment.
In silence, he crossed the chamber to the inner sanctum. As he set wide the oak panel, a roaring blaze cast a bright yellow hue, and he blinked.
To the left he discovered the large four-poster empty, as he anticipated. A muffled sob betrayed Florence’s distress, and he rushed to provide support and reassurance. Hugging her legs, she pressed her forehead to her knees, as she curled into a ball, shivered, and wept in a chair before the fireplace.
“Oh, sweetheart, it is all right.” The storm raged, and raindrops hammered the rooftop, as he knelt and pulled her into his arms. “I am here, and I will never leave you.”
“Barrington, please, make it stop.” A particularly vicious strike rattled the windows, and she lurched at him. “Help me. I can take no more.”
“Shh.” He brushed his lips to hers, in an attempt to calm and soothe her, but he quickly realized his error, when she all but pounced on him. “Easy, my darling.”
“No.” She unfastened his coat. “I want you now, and I want it rough, as it has been too long since you made love to me.”
In an awkward exchange of groping hands and tugging fingers, she destroyed the elegant folds of his cravat, just before she ripped the yard-length swath of linen from his neck, as she bit his lower lip. Caught off guard by the raw power of her response, he fought to balance them but lost the battle and toppled backwards, carrying her with him.
Garbed in naught but a gossamer nightgown, she crawled over him, in a sumptuous slip and slide that threatened the last vestiges of his self restraint, tore the buttons from his waistcoat, ripped open his shirt, and splayed her palms to his bare chest. Still, he held himself in check, gritting his teeth against the hunger, against the dull ache below his belly button, against the desire to take what she seemed intent on bestowing upon him.
“Florence, you are not yourself, and I would not take you in your current state.” He groaned, when she licked
his neck and ground her hips to his. Despite his better judgment, he caressed her derriere, the thin silk no real barrier to his touch. Heat pooled in his loins, fueling an already wicked erection, and at last Barrington yielded. “All right, love. Let us remove to your bed, where we will be more comfortable, and I will give you what you want.”
“Finally.” Without hesitation, she halted her play and stood. “Here.” She flicked her fingers. “Let me help you.”
“Slow down.” He barely got one arm free, and she yanked off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair. “We have all night.”
“And it will never be enough.” Just as quick, she divested him of his waistcoat and shirt. “Now hurry.”
“What happened to you while I was away?” Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he removed his Hessians but paused after unhooking the placket of his breeches. “Are you sure about this, because I planned only to provide reassurance? Indeed, my intentions were honorable.”
“How very respectable of you, but I have grown more determined in your absence.” As a bolt of lightning shattered the tranquil mood of the room, she whisked her nightgown over her head and dropped the delicate garment to the rug. “So we will not let your honor stop us.”
With that, his heretofore-reserved debutante launched a sumptuous assault.
Barrington supposed he could have deflected her elementary but oh-so-disarming seduction, but he simply did not wish to deny her. So as she pushed him onto his back, he scooted to the center of the bed, shifted and swapped their positions, settled between her thighs, inched his breeches to his knees, and took her in the most primal fashion possible.
It was as though he claimed her for the first time, given the force of his body’s reaction to her slick and scalding sheath, and while his every instinct was to plunder the bounty Florence presented, he paused to mark the moment. Sharing tender kisses and gentle caresses, with his flesh cradled deep within hers, he whispered endearments meant only for her, until she drew him close, set her lips to his, and at long last Barrington was truly home.
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