Beyond Innocence (27 page)

His fingers tightened on the stem of his wineglass. Given his behavior in the past, she might believe
just that.

"You'll ride with me tomorrow," he announced. "You mustn't forget what you've learned."

She shot him a startled look, her eyes like polished beryl in the rain. He'd forgotten what her gaze could do to him, how it seemed to reach inside and tug directly on his groin. Beneath the shadows of the table, he felt himself start to fill. The head of his cock stretched down his trouser leg. A tide of heat that had nothing to do with the Mulligatawny soup rose threateningly up his neck. He looked away before it
could reach his face.

"If you truly wish it," she said, quiet and deferential. "I'd be happy to ride with you."

The deference broke his temper.

"If I didn't wish it, I wouldn't have asked," he snapped.

His aunt lifted her brows but Edward ignored their unspoken question. He'd be damned if he'd explain himself. After a moment, the duchess returned her attention to the curried broth.

"Good," she said her voice both mild and dry. "We wouldn't want Freddie's intended growing bored."

* * *

Edward refused to
consider what he was doing, though he suspected his restless night had been due to dreams of having
Florence
to himself. He ignored the quickening of his pulse as he boosted her into the saddle. Nothing was going to happen today.
Nothing.
This prickle of excitement he felt was mere wishful thinking. But the wishes grew deeper as he noted how flatteringly she had dressed. She wore the same form-fitting blue habit that had dried his throat in
London
, the one that made her breast look provokingly like pigeon's and her waist a circle a man could span in his
Her
boots were black and laced to the bottom of her dress. He tried not to hold them any longer than it took to see her left foot in the stirrup.

He couldn't say if he was grateful or annoyed that she did not speak except to thank him.

Clicking Samson to a trot, he headed for the northern border of the estate, to the ruins of the original Greystowe Hall. Under the depredations of the eleventh earl, their land had shrunk to a few surrounding acres. When Edward's grandfather restored the family fortunes and rebuilt, he'd raided the tumbled fortress for its stone. Now only its outlines could be seen between the weeds. Edward's father had brought him here many times.
This is the fruit of demon drink,
he'd say.
Succumb to liquor and
games of chance and your destruction will be as sure.

His father would have shuddered to know how romantic young Edward found the site. Oh, the earl's lessons had found their mark but, to Edward, this was a place where fairies might dance or dragons breathe their last breath. No doubt he shouldn't have brought
Florence
to a spot so meaningful to him,
or so isolated, but at present he found it difficult to be sensible.

"My," she marveled in her soft, country voice, "what a wonderful place. I can just picture you and Freddie here, having imaginary sword fights with a pair of sticks."

"Broom handles," he confessed, and swung off his blowing horse. Many women would have dismissed the ruin as a useless pile of rocks. He was gratified by her reaction. He would admit it, he decided. He would enjoy it. This day was a harmless pleasure. For once he would not spoil the delight of her
company with thoughts of all he must not do. When he helped her down from Nitwit, he allowed
himself to relish the brief, gloved clasp of her hands. His body was alive in every cell, pulsing,
humming. The air was sweeter, the ground springier.

He only wished
Florence
could share a portion of his joy.

She followed his lead as they walked the horses side by side along the old foundation. She'd kept up
with him on the ride. He'd barely had to hold Samson back. He wondered if he ought to compliment
her on her skill, but that seemed too great a divulgence. No doubt Merry had told her how much she
had improved. No doubt she knew it herself.

They stopped before a long vista checkerboard fields and sheep pasture and, in the misty, rolling
distance, the first blue rise of the Peaks. Edward removed the horses' bridles. Samson wouldn't wander far and Nitwit would not leave him. The stallion was the master of the stable, certainly the master of the mares. Like two old friends, the horses began tearing grass from the same patch of ground.
Florence
watched them bump shoulders as if her thoughts were far away, her expression not so much sad as
blank. Consequences
be
damned, Edward thought. He couldn't stand to see her spirits quashed.

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" he said. "I know more has been bothering you than missing home."

If his concern surprised her, she did not show it. Instead, she fixed him with as level a gaze as he'd ever seen her use.
Florence
tended to wear her emotions on her sleeve, but he could not read them now.

"I've been wondering about women," she said.
"Women's feelings."

Edward coughed, not sure he was prepared to discover where this led.
"Women's feelings?"

"Yes." She folded her hands over her waist, the pose perversely prim. "I've been wondering if they are supposed to have the same needs that men do, or if such feelings are exclusive to the male sex."

The flush Edward had managed to avoid the night before blazed like fire across his skin. Of all the
things to ask him! He didn't want to think what had inspired the question, but he could not ignore it,
not when it so plainly distressed her. Lord, though—what had she and Freddie been getting up to?
Stalling for time, he raked his hair back with his hand.

"Of course women have feelings," he said. "I can't swear they're the same as men's, but from the evidence I've scen, they're very similar."

Florence
's eyes did not leave his. "And they were ordinary decent women who provided this evidence? Not—" She waved her arm, reluctant to give a name to women who were otherwise.

This sign of her old diffidence reassured him. He put his hand to her shoulder. "Yes.
Ordinary, decent women.
Well born.
Gently bred.
Neither depraved in spirit nor sick in their minds. I assure you, it's
quite natural for a woman to feel physical desire."

She pressed her lips together and her gaze evaded his. From chin to brow, her face was as pink as a budded rose.

"
Florence
." Giving in to temptation, he stroked the velvet warmth of her cheek. The sensation made him want to cry with pleasure, but he did nothing to intensify the caress. He gentled his voice. That was his caress. That was the secret expression of his love. "Has someone been telling you decent women don't feel desire?"

She shook her head, quick and definite, but he wasn't sure he believed her. He'd seen tracts himself, written by doctors, claiming that well-bred ladies did not like the marriage bed.

"It's perfectly natural," he repeated. "What's more, a woman is entitled to the same pleasure as a man
in the act of love."

The color in her cheeks heightened from rose to scarlet. For a moment, she did nothing but bite her bottom lip. Then her eyes lifted again to his, bravely, determinedly, but with such uncertainty he
wished he had the right to embrace her.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Oh, not about the act of love.
I grew up in the country, after all.
But the other, the pleasure part.
I don't—I'm not certain I understand."

Edward's groan would have tumbled a few more stones if he'd dared let it out. Any other woman he would have sent to her fiance. Such matters were best sorted out between man and wife. Unfortunately,
Florence
's
fiance
was Freddie. For
all his
brother's popularity with the fairer sex,
his actual experience with women was a mystery Edward didn't care to plumb. Would Freddie know how to answer
Florence
's question? Would he wish to if he could? Edward didn't want to think his brother too selfish
to enlighten his betrothed, but he was forced to acknowledge he might be too embarrassed.

Oh, Lord, he thought, I shouldn't do this. I shouldn't even consider it.

But it was more than possible he'd be doing Freddie a favor. Freddie cared for
Florence
. If she came to her conjugal bed with a few hints as to what went on, her wedding night might not be the catastrophe Edward feared. Moreover,
Florence
deserved to know the answer.

Sighing, he pulled her trembling form against his chest. The way she snuggled against him, trusting and soft, made him want to hold her there forever.

"I'll show you," he said, his throat tight. "But only so you'll know and only if you promise this stays between us."

At last, he had succeeded in shocking her. She tipped her head back to see his face, her eyes round,
her
rosy mouth agape. "You'll show me?"

He could not help himself. He had wanted her too long, with more than his body, with more even than
his heart. She called to the part of him that could not change, that would love her forever, no matter
what life brought them both. With a groan of agonized pleasure, he dipped his head and kissed her.

She did not resist. Indeed, she seemed to melt against him: her mouth, her body, all her softness pressing the parts of him that needed pressing most. The unexpected capitulation drove everything but hunger from his mind. He couldn't remember the difference between what he'd intended and what he hadn't.
He could only want; could only seize the moment and hold it tight.

He gripped her bottom and lifted her into his groin. The added pressure made his erection throb intensely enough to hurt. He drove deep into her mouth, needing to taste, to claim, to assuage every instant of longing since he'd held her last. When he suckled her tongue she made a sound like
a startled dove. His head spun. She was holding him. Her arms clung to his back, her hands to his shoulders. He wanted to
rip off her gloves and bite the tips of her fingers. He wanted to toss her habit over her head and sink forever into her sex. Instead, he hugged her so fiercely she gasped.

He could not bring himself to release her mouth, not even to apologize for being rough. Impatient beyond bearing, and knowing they could not stand here in the open, he swept her off her feet and carried her like a child to the half-ruined hulk of the old hearth.

"
Wh-
what are you doing?" she said as he set her down. Blood burned in her cheeks, in her bee-stung lips. Her hair had fallen, a shining chestnut gleam across her heaving breasts. Her eyes blazed with wants he doubted she could have named. She looked a perfect wanton.
An innocent wanton.

He could not answer her question. He didn't know what he was doing. Instead, he kissed her again, deeply, working his mouth into hers until she moaned and went limp. Only his weight held her up
against the chimney, his knees bent to align their heights, his hips grinding slowly over hers. His cock
was so hard, so
sensitive,
he seemed to feel each fold of cloth between them.
Florence
felt it, too: the pressure of his rigid penis against her mons. The flesh between her legs was very warm. It would be
wet, he thought. It would be weeping now for him.

With a groan, he burrowed harder. Her nails pricked his nape. Something shifted inside him, dark and forbidden. He pulled her arms away and pressed them, wide and straight, to the sun-warmed stones above her head. He held her wrists as if his hands were shackles, as if she were the prisoner of his desires. The image whipped him like a lash. His body clamored for him to take her, here, like this, until this terrible desire was sated.

"What are you doing?" she said again, tremulous, her breath panting against his jaw.