Beyond Innocence (12 page)
"Oh," he said, unconsciously pursing his mouth in distaste, "Greta and Minna."
"Yes.
Greta and Minna.
And if you don't dance with your cousin, they'll convince everyone you disapprove of her." Her eyes narrowed and she poked the center of his chest with the end of her fan. "You don't really dislike her, do you? I'd hate to think so.
Because she's obviously a nice girl and just
as obviously perfect for your brother.
If you meant to be cruel, I would be forced to greatly lower my estimation of your character."
Edward was startled to hear Miss Vance had any estimation of him at all. Taken aback, he had only enough presence of mind to blink when she grabbed both his wrists and pulled him onto the crowded floor. What a hellion she was to behave this outrageously in public!
"We'll dance straight to her," she said, lifting his arms into the appropriate position. "My brother Peter
has got her now and he's already stood up with her twice. Once more and Mama
will
fear he means to make a declaration. He'll know he must relinquish her to you."
Contrary to Edward's expectations, Miss Vance, the freckle-faced, horse-mad girl, proved a neat dancer. Almost before he knew it, she'd spun them through the other couples
to
Florence
's side. He wasn't certain, but he suspected Miss Vance had been leading.
* * *
Florence
's world shrank
down to a single soul. Edward stood before her.
Tall Edward.
Grave Edward.
Edward of the burning eyes and the beautiful mouth.
Peter Vance faded into insignificance, though he'd stepped a mere foot away. Freddie's older brother was all that she could see. This was not good, she thought, not
good
at all.
"Oh," she said stupidly, and put one hand to her stays to keep her heart from bursting through.
"Edward."
"
Florence
," he said, with a low, formal bow. How broad his shoulders
were,
and how well his black tailcoat showed off the trimness of his waist! With customary dignity, he straightened. "Might I have
the honor of this dance?"
Florence
blinked. "You wish to dance with me?" He frowned and at once she felt more clearheaded. A scowling Edward she was used to.
"Yes, I wish to dance with you. Have you some objection, cousin?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I—I'd be happy to."
"Well then," he said.
As if on cue, the orchestra struck up a waltz. Her skin tingled as he took her in his arms. At once, she knew this dance was different. Edward held her with complete assurance, born to rule the ballroom.
The hand he'd placed on her waist almost rifted her through the steps.
"Stop looking at your feet," he whispered, his cheek for one moment pressed to hers.
At the touch, her limbs turned to honey, liquid and warm, as if she'd been set in the sun.
"Oh," she said, enchanted in spite of every scrap of sense that spoke against it.
"Oh, my, you dance divinely."
He laughed, the second time she'd heard him do so. She wanted to hear that happy sound again.
She wanted to hear it every day. His arm tightened and suddenly her breasts were pressed lightly to his chest. That, she thought dizzily, was even better. His legs, so long, so sure, brushed the front of her skirts. She had only to follow their motion; had only to let him lead.
"It's like flying," she said, helpless to keep her smile inside.
He grinned back at her, his face creasing upward, his bright blue eyes agleam. "It's dancing,
Florence
,
the way it was meant to be."
She caught her breath with pleasure as he spun her even faster. The other couples seemed to part like
the sea before them.
The music swooped, giddy, magical.
She took a firmer grip on his shoulders and closed her eyes.
"You're as lovely as a rose," he murmured, just loudly enough for her to hear.
With a quiet sigh, he gathered her closer still. She felt the warmth of his body, the hardness of his chest. His breath came quickly from his exertions. In. Out.
Stirring her hair.
Warming her cheek.
The sound
put a spell on her. Something throbbed inside her: an ache, a nameless want. She thought she heard him whisper her name.
Yes,
she thought, and her lips moved soundlessly on the word. He must have seen her do it. His hand tightened on hers, his fingers strong, sending a message her body could not help but read. Without warning, a flood of heat washed through her flesh. Her knees wobbled and gave and she stumbled over his foot.
Edward caught her before she fell.
"Goodness," she said, mortified by her near collapse. "I'm afraid all that twirling has made me dizzy."
For once, Edward's frown was more worried than disapproving. He put his arm around her waist to steady her. "Come. Let's get you some air."
He would not listen to her demurs, but led her from the stuffy ballroom and down a corridor to a large conservatory.
Florence
would have liked to see this marvel by daylight. Arched high above their heads, the white iron framework glowed faintly beneath the moon. Perhaps, like the
Ankle boots crunching on the pebbles.
Edward guided
her past towering palms and banks of ferns and a large lily pond beneath which orange fishes hung in sleep. He stopped at last under a cool dome of glass where roses of every imaginable hue grew in lushly scented profusion.
"Here." He seated her on a pretty cast-iron bench. "Close your eyes and breathe." To her surprise, he
sat beside her and patted her hand. "Lizzie laced you too tightly, didn't she?"
"Oh, no," she said, her eyes flying open to find his gaze. "Aunt Hypatia's maid wouldn't let her. It was
the dancing, I think.
All that swooping around.
It was wonderful, of course, but suddenly I felt so hot."
His brows lowered, shading his eyes to blackness. His expression was most peculiar. "You felt hot."
"Yes." She fanned her face at the memory.
"Astonishingly hot.
As if someone had dropped me in a
pot of steam. You don't suppose I've taken ill, do you?"
She knew the words were hopeful. Though the ball had not been as terrifying as she'd feared, she still would have liked to go home.
"No." he said, but he touched her cheek with the back of his hand.
"There
it is again!" she gasped.
"
Florence
," he
said,
half laugh, half groan. "You cannot be so ignorant you do not know why you are flushed."
"Well, I—" she began and then her gaze caught on his smiling lips. "I'm sure it's not—I've found men appealing before, you know, and they never affected me like this!"
"Didn't they?" His eyes were heavy, his tone a soft, insinuating growl. "Didn't they make you hot
from the inside out? Didn't they make you yearn and ache and feel as if you would die unless you
held them?"
His head drew closer, lips brushing her cheek like heated satin.
"Edward," she gasped, a shiver supplanting her flush. She wished he wouldn't speak so; wished he wouldn't draw so close. "You can't be meaning to kiss me!"
"Indeed," he said with that same groaning laugh, his mouth sliding along her jaw. "1
assure
you I don't mean to. Common sense forbids it.
And decency.
And every drop of affection my brother pulls from
my heart."
She didn't know what Freddie had to do with it, but she was certain what he was doing qualified as a
kiss. His lips had slid over hers, soft but firm and parted for the rush of his breath. She brought her
palms to his chest, meaning to push him away but mysteriously unable to do so. She felt like the victim
of a mesmerist, caught in the spell of his magnetic power. His chest was so hard, so warm. Helpless to resist, her fingers curled into the starchy linen of his shirt.
"Stop me,
Florence
," he whispered, shivering beneath her touch. "Stop me before I hurt us both."
"Stop yourself," she said, though she couldn't imagine where she'd found the wickedness to do so.
At least he was not angry. Chuckling, he nipped her chin,
then
did what no one had ever done before. First he licked her lower lip,
then
pressed beyond it with the tip of his tongue, actually breaching the
outer reaches of her mouth.
"Sweet," he said, and did it again, more deeply than before.
Florence
was shocked beyond fear. The smooth wet curve slid past her teeth before she could gather
her wits to stop him. She could taste the champagne punch he'd drunk; could feel the texture of his tongue as it stroked her own. The effect was peculiarly seductive. It made her want to lick him back; made her want to close her eyes and sigh. But it was an unconscionable intimacy, a thing even a
husband might not do. And now he was sucking her, pulling at her tongue as if he meant to lure it
from her mouth. Her shoulders stiffened and her hands clutched his arms. Her heart beat like a fox chased to ground. A kiss was bad enough, but this ... this blatantly carnal invasion—she could not
allow it, simply couldn't.
"Let me," he whispered when she twisted her head away.
"Oh, God,
Florence
.
I'll go mad if I can't
kiss you."
A sound broke in her throat, a hopeless whimper. His sweet, husky plea made her tingle from head
to toe. He
was right. She was attracted to him. That honeyed warmth was pouring through her veins, curling low in her belly and thighs, like a tide no force of
will could
stop.
"Let me," he said, as if he sensed her weakening. He nibbled her neck, then the lobe of her ear.
"One kiss,
Florence
. One
kiss
to satisfy us both. No one will see. I'd never let anyone see."
She tried to think of Aunt Hypatia, of the five hundred guests who might take it into their heads to
wander out. She tried to think of what she'd come here to find.
A nice, safe husband.
Not a moody, black-hearted wretch who insulted her one moment and begged for kisses the next.
Sadly her efforts were for naught. "Just one?" she asked in a shameful rush of breath.
He covered her mouth with a sighing moan, his tongue searching, caressing, his arms slowly circling her back. This time she kissed him back. She couldn't help it. He was gentle but unstoppable, like treacle rolling down a heated pan.
"Yes," he praised at her tentative foray. "Kiss me,
Florence
. Kiss me as deeply as you can." One hand slid up her spine to cup her head. He was tilting her neck: guiding her, she thought with an odd, warm start, so that her vulnerability to his possession would be complete.
And then her neck wasn't the only thing that was tilting. He was tipping her backwards, dizzying her as
he laid her down along the bench. Satin rustled and hissed. She had to clutch his back to keep from
falling and then she
wanted
to clutch his back. Its breadth was a pleasure she could not resist: its
warmth, the slow, shifting strain of its muscles. His mouth lifted for breath, then sank again.
Oh, her head was spinning. His hand gripped her waist, then her hip, then wedged beneath the bulk of
her bustle to squeeze her bottom as if he loved the give of the generous flesh. Her moan was not the protest it should have been. His weight felt so right between her legs. This was what men and women were meant to be. His hardness was the match for her softness, his pressure for her yielding. She gave
in to the urge to hold him tighter, sliding her arms beneath the cover of his coat.