Florence’s Stupendous Spinster’s Society (The Spinster’s Society) (A Regency Romance Book)

by Charlotte Stone

  .

  .

  CHAPTER SIX

  .

  Florence took Rollo in from head to toe. His ink black hair had been pulled back, his eyes seemed to become even darker in the firelight's shadows. A black jacket emphasized his arms and wide expanse of his chest and narrowed waist. He wore a blue waistcoat, white shirt, black breeches, and polished boots, all of it worn in a way that put every other man she'd ever met to shame. At his throat, a diamond pin winked from his cravat, glittering like the onyx in his eyes.

  He smiled in a way Florence had not been prepared for, a boyish grin that held a mild hint of arrogance and curiosity, yet what he could possibly be about she didn't know. She clutched her book against her chest and looked down, remembering her place. It amazed her just how quickly these people could make her forget, this man in particular.

  If he'd come into the library, he obviously wanted a book, since she doubted he'd come for the reason she had. Solitude and warmth. She'd tried to stay in her room, intending on taking a short rest before Elipha rang for her, but the room had been too cold and worse, she'd been unable to sleep. She was so used to being busy at this hour that sleep would most likely not find her until the wee hours of the morning.

  So, since she couldn't sleep, she might as well be of use. "How can I help you, sir?"

  She watched his boots came closer, their steps muffled by the carpet. He stopped when he was about a yard away, and she lifted her eyes when he didn't speak.

  Those black eyes seemed to hold her in place and set her heart racing. "I came to see how you're faring. There are so many strangers here now. I hope we're not in your way."

  She blinked as confusion set in. Her way? She had no way. Where the wealthy were concerned, she existed to serve. Only when she was back in London, where Elipha had plenty of other servants to do her bidding, would she be able to resume her life.

  However, if he was asking if she took any issue with the way the women had taken over the kitchen then she would assure him that she was not one of those servants who saw parts of the home as her own domain. "We are very fortunate that you all have decided to visit. You've nothing to worry about." Her more so, since she'd no longer have to make meals. "If you'll excuse me." She moved around him and started to leave.

  "Are you reading a book?"

  She turned and looked at him, pressing the book further into her person. His eyes seemed to catch the possessive move before meeting her eyes again. "This is my book. It doesn't belong to the library."

  "Were you writing in it?"

  Her chest heated. "Yes." She had no desire to tell him that what was in her hand was, in fact, a book of her own drawings. She had a feeling that it would only lead the man to ask to see them and that she could never allow.

  He took a step backward and leaned against the side of the mantle. Though he'd moved away, she felt as though he'd drawn closer in some way; the room seemed to grow smaller. His stance was less threatening, lazy as his gaze. "What are you writing about?"

  Florence cut her eyes to the floor as she caught herself staring again. She knew what was going on. He was asking her personal questions, which meant that what he wanted from her had little to do with her duties. There was only one reason lords and the likes ever noticed her, cornered her, touching her inappropriately and claiming it to be an accident. They thought her pretty and wished to know her in a very biblical way. Admittedly, if her position as a lady's maid didn't pay so well, she'd leave, but with circumstances as they were, that option was not allowed.

  "Florence."

  She looked up again and was surprised he'd bothered to remember her name. She liked the way he said it, a caress that made the room feel warmer than it was. With a face such as his, she was sure that plenty a maid had fallen into his bed before. His smile alone seemed to promise a life of wickedness that would make one render their soul to experience it again and again. How easy it would be to give in to that temptation, to see what would happen if she gave herself over to a man who looked at her the way he did. But unfortunately, that girl was not her. "I must go."

  "Why?"

  "What?"

  "Why?" He shrugged and moved toward her. "Why must you leave? Your lady doesn't need you." But he did. She could see it in his eyes. She was sure that in her black maid uniform, there was little to see of her form, yet he watched her as though he knew her every secret and every stitch of the undergarments she wore beneath.

  She took a deep breath as she noticed he'd crowded around her.

  "Stay with me." He was closer now, his body only an inch from hers. He smelled of vanilla and sandalwood. She licked her lips as though she could taste him, a sweet and dark treat. The heat, his scent, and his voice seemed to penetrate her senses. He touched her chin with a single gloved finger and her neck craned in an effort to find his gaze. The intensity in those black gems nearly caused her to drop her book.

  His eyes became hooded, haunting black pools. He leaned forward, his breath brushing her face. Another inch and...

  She froze. "Stop."

  He stilled. His expression didn't change, and his thumb stroked her cheek, sending a shiver of awareness down her body. He studied her. "Stop? I've not done anything yet." Only if he didn't count moving, speaking, and breathing.

  "Oh, I think you've done quite a bit," she whispered.

  Her response caused him to smile, and this time there was no arrogance, just simple humor and still the curious look. Was she the one who'd caught his curiosity?

  "Where are you from?" he asked.

  "London."

  "Which part?"

  "A part I'm sure that men like you don't tarry for long." She'd grown up in a part of London the gently bred folk feared, though the East End was not as terrible as some liked to think. It was simply filled with hardworking people like herself.

  He lifted a brow. "Where?"

  "East Smithfield."

  He smiled and retracted his hand. She'd hardly realized he'd still been touching her until he stopped. "My father was from Whitechapel."

  She was surprised but then she remembered that Rollo was not a lord even if his father had been called King Kerry. According to legend, the man had managed to make quite a fortune in a short amount of time before marrying an heiress. Boldly, she asked, "How did he manage to move so far up in the world?"

  "He made money and then made wise investments."

  "That's a very short story."

  He laughed, and she wondered why he found her so amusing. She was only speaking the truth. She had a feeling that there had been much unsaid about his father's rise to the outskirts of the beau monde.

  But alas, why would he tell a servant girl more than she needed to know? His intent was to get her in bed and since she had no plans to join him in his chambers, it was best she cut their conversation short... before she did feel like giving in.

  "Goodnight, Mr. Kerry."

  He placed a hand on her hip, which caused her gasp and drop her book. "Don't leave. I told you about my parents. It’s only fair you speak of yours."

  She lifted a brow, wondering if he truly cared. “My father is dead. My mother is ill.”

  His expression changed swiftly to concern. “I’m so sorry.”

  She heard the truth in it. Not wanting to make him feel bad, she said, “It’s all right. In one of her recent letters, she said she’s feeling better.” Though Florence would only believe it when she saw for herself.

  He smiled. “Who do people say you look like?”

  “My mother.”

  “She must be a beautiful woman, then.”

  Florence wondered how a compliment to her mother could make her like him more than one to herself. She needed to get away from him and quickly.

  She moved to get her book.

  "I'll get it," he said as he followed her to the floor.

  She tried to get it before him but somehow, he managed to pick it up before she could. When he straightened, he held it out to her, but whatever he
saw in her eyes gave him pause and when she reached to take it, he held it away.

  She glared. "Give me my book."

  "Tell me what I shall find inside, and I will. Have you been writing about me?"

  Her heart jumped, as he was far too close to the truth. "As a fact, I have."

  His eyes widened. "Oh? Good things, I hope."

  She made a noise that was both a purr and a moan. "Indeed, a manual on the best ways to dismember a gentleman."

  His expression was the epitome of stunned.

  She used that moment to lean forward and place her hand on the book, which showed itself to be a very bad idea. She pulled hard against him, his hand spread over her lower back, her body pressed into his, feeling every ridge in the hard plane of his chest.

  She looked up and her nose accidentally brushed his right before his mouth touched hers and, like fingers to a candle flame, snuffed out her every thought. Florence had been kissed a million times, some with partners she'd given the liberty to and some stolen, but Rollo's seemed to awaken something unknown, something that was hidden deep within herself that was now rising to the surface and heating a path through her body along the way. He kissed like a man who knew exactly what he was doing, showing her how expert he was with his mouth as proof of what he could do with the rest of his body.

  She clung to him, forgetting her book and ignoring the nagging of her morals. She heard the book drop to the ground and still she pressed closer, his kiss becoming as hungry as his.

  He moaned and walked her backward until she was against a wall.

  The shock of the cold wall followed by the laughter of women on the other side broke her from the hold of her desires. The men and women would be joining one another again. She pushed him away and went to retrieve her book before starting toward the door. Shame burned her face. She stopped when she discovered Rollo blocking her escape. His hair had come undone, and she wondered if she were to blame for it. He was breathing heavily and did nothing to tamper the longing in his eyes. "Come to me tonight."

  She let out a breath. "No."

  "Why not?" His expression showed that he expected a reply.

  She was flustered as she tried to think. "There are plenty of answers to that question."

  He moved toward her and grabbed her hips once more. "I just need one, Florence. Why not?"

  Because she'd never laid with a man before. Because he was the last sort of man she wished to share that first time with. She wanted love, and he would never give that to her, no matter how many wishes she made, dreams she dreamt, or hours she spent on her knees. Rollo was from another world, and it was one she didn't belong in.

  But she didn't wish to give him those answers, because with them also came a part of herself.

  So, instead, she said, "Because I don't want to."

  It was a lie. They both knew it to be a lie.

  He frowned. "I wish for an honest answer to an honest question."

  She moved out of his reach. "I gave you one. The answer is no."

  He stared at her. "Would you prefer someone else?" He spoke again quickly at her expression of anger. "No then. What is it?"

  Needing to leave, she decided to tell him words that were closer to the truth. "You're not for me."

  "I don't think that's true."

  Her heart jumped into her throat with surprise. Did he truly think she was for him? That they were meant for each other?

  His eyes darkened. "I think we'd be perfect together."

  Her previous feeling of hope died. Of course, he only meant in bed. There was no place for her elsewhere in his existence. She saw him with the sort of woman like the ones he'd arrived with. Women who didn't come from the East End.

  "You're wrong," she told him. "We wouldn't fit."

  He smiled in a way that said he was laughing at her. "No, Florence. You're wrong. I'm always right about these things. Call it luck, but I think you and I would be very happy together."

  She didn't wish to hear him say anymore. "No."

  He blinked and moved out of her way, opening his hand for her to depart, his gold ring catching the light. "Very well then. I bid you goodnight."

  She stared at him and moved. Relief, pain, and shame that she could feel any disappointment that he'd seemed so sure for one minute and done with her in the next pulled at her.

  When she passed him, she almost wished he would reach out and touch her again, but he didn't.

  She made it to the threshold before he spoke again.

  "There's a reason they call me King Kerry."

  She bit her lip and turned to look at him. His hands were in his pockets, his expression formidable. She didn't dare ask him why they called him such a thing.

  Still, he volunteered the answer, but not until he was close once more, forcing them to breathe the same air.

  "When it comes to money or even time, I, too, make wise investments." The desire in his eyes nearly burned her where she stood. "And I plan to use my time on you." The promise sent a thrill through her that settled in her belly.

  His mouth hovered over hers.

  She leaned forward and then fell back on her heels and ran. Her body felt ready to break into a sweat. She was almost thankful for her cold room.

  * * *

  .

  .

  .

  * * *

  * * *

  .

  .

  .

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  .

  "I can't believe you let him win." Sophia paced the room where the other girls would be sleeping... every girl but Genie. The traitor had her face cast to the floor, yet even now Sophia could tell that she was inching closer to the door, vying to make her escape. She'd be back in Francis' arms the moment the Spinsters let her go.

  "I'm so sorry." Genie shamelessly gripped the door handle. Color bloomed on her cheeks.

  "We were supposed to stick together." Lorena huffed and crossed her arms, her linen nightdress illuminating her in the firelight. The women had all changed for the night and braided each other's hair, a ritual that Sophia had gotten used to over the last few days. Since Sophia had been rescued the night Helsby kidnapped her with intentions of forcing her to become his second wife, Lorena had rarely let Sophia out of her sight. She'd been so glad to have her friends back, a friendship that felt like it had been woven over the span of years when in truth Sophia had only met them half a year ago.

  "Now what will we do?" Alice sat on a corner of the bed. How the four of them would ever crowd on it was beyond her, but the men had already hauled all the extra beds away, holding them hostage until the women gave in.

  It wasn't that they didn't wish to be wives; it was simply that they each had a reason for postponing the wedding.

  Lorena had been blamed for burning down Ashwick's home on the night she returned to Society. Theirs had been a courtship that burned hotter than most... literally. It was Lorena's desire that Ashwick's home be rebuilt before they moved in and since no ordinary house would do for the powerful earl, it would be a few more months until its completion.

  Alice's father had been forced to join the navy and with the war against Napoleon raging in France, they had no idea when the man would be returning, but she expected news from him any day now.

  Genie's situation was more complicated. Francis was still being held to a debt that he'd been tricked into by her father, but since her father was no longer around to question, the courts held the contract as is. Genie had wished for a clean start without the contract being over her Francis' head since there was a portion that claimed Francis could lose everything if he married her before the contract was cleared.

  Sophia had never seen herself being anything more than Sophia Taylor, the writer and the daughter to London's most prominent tailor, and yet in the last month, she'd become Lady Sophia Taylor and the fiancée to the Duke of Cort. Her father had paid a heavy price for the deception he and his twin had committed. He would not only take his place as the Viscount of Doveha
ven, but he was not allowed to tailor clothes anymore... unless it was exclusively for His Majesty. It was better than prison, she supposed.

  But would the sisterhood that had formed around her vanish once they were no longer Spinsters? She was sure she wasn't the only one who thought so. It was no secret their men wished the group disbanded.

  On the other side of the bed, Maura was already fast asleep, a small peaceful smile on her face. She had no cares in the world and Sophia almost envied her. Envied and loved her. She loved all the women in the room because they'd all come when she'd needed them most, along with the men.

  Alice sighed. "If I'm the reason everyone is waiting then don’t wait for me. I’ll be all right." While everyone had their reasons for postponing their weddings, Alice's reason had grown to matter the most. If there was to be a wedding, they would all marry together, but they'd all agreed to wait for word from Alice's father. If there was a set date for him to return, then they would wait for that day.

  Genie let go of the doorknob and moved closer to the group, her fingers folded together, her hands pressed over her heart. "I'm truly sorry. I really am, but you all know how long I've waited for this."

  Sophia couldn't help but smile. She'd stayed in London with Genie when she'd been in mourning after her father's death, a sad time though Earl of Buckley had never been kind to his daughter. Genie's mother had died when she was young and since she was a child, all she'd wanted was Francis.

  Alice stood, walked over to Genie, and gave her a hug. "I'll not make you wait any longer. You've waited long enough. I’ll be willing to stand with all of you for your wedding."

  Genie's eyes glittered with happiness. "Does that mean we'll all wed together?"

  Lorena sighed and dropped her arms. "We'll have to take a vote."

  Genie clapped her hands. "All in favor, say aye."

  As though she could say anything else, Sophia said, "Aye," with the others.