Beyond Innocence (30 page)

"Tell me what?"

"That you must not expect—
That
I'm not—" He filled his lungs with air and began again. "I'm not a greatly physical man. Please believe me when I say I care for you, even love you, and wish you all the happiness in the world. But if what you want from marriage is a close physical relationship, I fear
you're doomed to disappointment with me. I fear you'd be better crying off."

Florence
felt as if he'd struck her. He wanted her to cry off? To give up everything she'd dreamed of?
A home, a family, a little security and a good, kind man to share it with?
To be rejected by Edward was one thing. For that she blamed her own stupidity. But to be hurt here, where she'd believed herself safe, where she'd laid her modest hopes in perfect confidence that they'd be met was something she'd never prepared for. Her mind could not encompass her shock, not to mention her shame.
Again.
Again she
was cast aside.

It must be a punishment for what she'd done. She'd made her vow to be true to him too late. Her
napkin fell to the floor as she pushed stiffly to her feet. "You don't want to marry me."

"No." He caught her hands and squeezed. "That's not what I meant at all. I'd be honored to marry you. You've no idea how deeply I value your affection. But I've been thinking, perhaps, you should not want to marry me."

Her blood was ice, her eyes searing hot. She knew he was being kind. It was his way: a gentleman to
the last. She did not deserve to marry a man like him.

"If you wish it," she said, blinking back tears, "I shall release you from your promise."

Instead, he released her hands. "It's not what
I
wish,
Florence
."

She could not bear his gentle lies. "Please leave," she said with what dignity she could pull around her.
"I wish to be alone."

"Are you sure, sweetheart? I could—"

"Please," she repeated, cutting him off.

She barely noticed the trouble it caused him to turn the chair. It was an unwieldy thing, meant to be pushed by another. With an effort, he forced the contraption across the reshold. "I'll speak to you in
the morning. Please,
Florence
, don't decide anything without me."

She nodded, unable to trust her voice.

She did not cry until the crickets drowned out his wheels.

* * *

Edward remained in
the library long after his interest in its contents had palled. His private suite was in
the family wing and the passage outside it led directly past the orangery. He hadn't wanted to hear
Freddie and
Florence
, nor remind them of his existence. As a result, here he stayed, a specter by the
high French windows, nursing his second glass of brandy for the night.

He'd ordered the servants not to linger near the courting pair.

Stomach knotting, he turned his head towards the spot where the glassed-in structure angled into his
line of sight. He could distinguish nothing through the foliage but a faint candle glow. They'd been in
there an hour. Was Freddie kissing her? Whispering sweet nothings in her ear? To be sure, Edward
ought to hope he was. He ought to hope Freddie had swept her completely off her feet.

Needless to say, he did not.

He finished his brandy in a single swallow,
then
glanced behind him at the long, book-lined room. He could pace as he'd done earlier.
Past the herbals and the Greeks.
Up around the gallery and down the spiral stair. He could glare at the busts of Plato and Pliny that dignified the doorway to the drawing
room. He could even flip through the duchess's silly Gothic novels and give himself a laugh.

He did none of these things. Fool that he was
,
he stood, nose virtually pressed to glass, watching a
distant, flickering glow that told him absolutely nothing, yet managed to torture him all the same.

Suddenly he straightened, every muscle tensing to alert.

The outer door to the orangery had opened. A figure was emerging.
It was
Florence
. She was alone.

Anyone else would have thought she was taking a meditative stroll. Her pace was measured. Her skirts swept negligently behind her on the grass. Only eyes sharpened by love could perceive the stiffness in
her steps, as if a puppet were being tugged by unkind strings.

When she dragged her sleeve across her eyes, he knew she had been crying.

He did not stop to think, not even to wonder what bis brother had done. He flung through the French door and across the columned portico. When he gained the lawn, he peered wildly past the reach of the gaslight. She was moving towards the front of the house, towards the lake.

Shorter of breath than his brief exertions should have made him, he hastened in her wake. She was walking faster now. She'd gotten farther ahead of him than he liked. He was aware, in the dimmer recesses of his mind, that he was being ridiculous. A weeping woman didn't necessarily want
or
need rescuing, nor would many have chosen his services if they'd shared
Florence
's experience of him. But
he couldn't take the chance that she might want his comfort and he wouldn't be there to give it. He had
to be there if she needed him.
Had to.

He slowed as he saw her step onto the footbridge that connected to lakeshore to the island. His neck tightened. Where was she going? What did she intend? Surely she wouldn't throw herself off the bridge. Whatever had happened couldn't be as bad as that. In spite of this logic, his shoulders did not relax until she crossed the midpoint of the arch. One of the slumbering swans ruffled its wings in complaint.
 Cursing too quietly to be heard, Edward followed.

He almost lost her on the other side. She must have had the eyes of a cat. If he hadn't been so familiar with the island's paths, he would have missed his way. As it was, twice he had to strain his ears for the drag of her skirt on the gravel before he knew which turn she'd taken. The beeches began to close in,
tall dark shapes in the country night.
Florence
never faltered. He realized she was heading for the
summer house, as if drawn there by a beacon he could not see.

Now more curious than alarmed, he drew to the side of the path as she tried the handle of the heavy Moorish door. It didn't budge. She tried again,
then
pounded the wood beneath the fanciful crescent of glass. This failing to achieve any effect, she slid sobbing to the stoop. That was more than enough to make Edward admit to his presence.

He stepped out of the shadows.
Florence
didn't seem at all surprised to see him.

"It's locked," she accused, as angry as a thwarted child.

"It's not locked. It's heavy. And the hinges are probably stuck."

"Well, open it, damn you." The curse sounded comical on her lips and he struggled not to smile. She'd pushed to her feet and was loudly sniffing back tears. Edward wondered if she were going to hit him
the way she had that night before the Vances' ball. She certainly looked tempted.

So much for offering comfort, he thought, but did as she asked—though he had to brace his foot on
the wall and heave. Finally, with a loud squeal of protest, the stubborn door gave way.

A cloud of dust set them both to coughing. This building had been his and Freddie's grandfather's retreat from family life and their father's after him. It was a place of illicit rendezvous, a smoking room,
a
bastion of male vices. Edward and Freddie had played Crusades in it when they were young, but that had been long ago. Thankfully, a flint and taper still lay on the shelf inside the door. Edward lit the candle,
then
made a circuit of the large round room.

The oil in the sconces smelled stale, but burned well enough. Soon a buttery glow lit heaps of satin cushions and silk wool carpets and twisted Oriental columns. No thicker than a man's arm, and ornamented with flowers that never grew, the cast-iron pillars had been painted to resemble stone. Low octagonal tables with mirrors set into their wood spoke of meals served lounging on the floor. A greasy hookah sat atop one, its hose wrapped like a sleeping snake around the cylinder of glass. The colors of
the room were
rich and dark.
Sapphire.
Crimson.
The green of shadowed pine.
Dust cloaked the
decadent display, dimming the exotic wood and furring the polished green stone that peeped between
the rugs. The dust did not, however, inhibit the rounding of
Florence
's eyes.

Mouth open, cheeks stained with drying tears, she gaped at the filigreed arch above her head. He could almost see visions of harems running through her mind. Before thej could run through his, he cleared his throat. "Might I ask why you were so determined to get in here?"

She turned to finger a musty crimson drape. He suspected she was embarrassed. "I suppose I thought
I'd spend the night here."

"Because—?"

"Don't take that tone with me," she said, her anger tinged with fatigue, "as if I were a child sniveling
over a broken doll."

He couldn't answer at first. He was too taken by the sight of her in his father's old trysting place, her profile glowing in the lamplight, her figure enough to fuel the dreams of a dozen generations. He felt
oddly close to her.
despite
his obviously having put his foot in it.

I even relish her rebukes, he thought, a laugh for his foolishness caught in his throat.

"Forgive me," he said, all humor hidden. "I didn't mean to belittle your troubles. Please tell me what's wrong. Did Freddie do something to offend you?"

The nearest sconce lit the involuntary pursing of her lips. "Freddie doesn't want to marry me."

The answer caught him by surprise. He took a step closer. "He couldn't have said that. He wouldn't."

"Of course he wouldn't. What he actually said was I shouldn't want to marry him. 'Doomed to disappointment' was how he put it." She turned to face him, her back pressing the velvet drapery to the wall. As if her confession refreshed her horror, she covered her face with her hands. A moment later,
she dropped them in resignation.

"I don't know what I shall do," she said. "I'd hoped ... too much, clearly. I'm sinking in debt. I can't afford to hunt another husband, even supposing anyone would want discarded goods. I suppose I can
find some sort of position, but that begs the question of what to do for Lizzie." Her lower lip trembled
and she caught it in her teeth. "She's been so pleased, Edward. Since Freddie proposed, she's begun to believe she'll have a happy life."

A single tear spilled down her dove-soft cheek. Edward found this more wrenching than a storm of sobs. He knew it was
Florence
who'd begun to hope for a happy life. Without stopping to count the cost, he opened his arms.

"Come here," he said. As if she'd been waiting a lifetime for the offer, she ran to him with a hiccuping little cry. Her arms clung tightly to his back. Her body shook but it was warm. She fit the harbor of his chest as if God had made her for his hold. Happier than he had any right to be, he rubbed his cheek against her hair. "You'll work it out. I know Freddie didn't mean what you believe."

"He did," she insisted, her face pressed to the front of his shirt. "I know he did. He didn't want me,
either. When I kissed him, he—well, let's just say he wasn't looking forward to having me in his bed.
Oh, blast it anyway!"

With a furious shove, she pushed back from his hold. "What's wrong with me?" she demanded, arms flung wide to indicate her person. "What fatal flaw do the Greystowe men find so repulsive? Am I too fat?
Too thin?
Or perhaps my character's too dull? It can't be my boldness because I'm not very and,
in any case, you liked when Merry Vance was bold. By God, you even gave her my horse!"