The Tower #2
Frederick's hands were gentler—or perhaps more controlled—as they found the fastenings of her dress. She felt the fabric loosen, felt the cool air of the tower room against her bare shoulders as the muslin slipped down.
"I have imagined this." His voice was rough against her ear, his breath warm where it touched her neck. "Every night for eighteen months. The sounds you would make. The way you would taste."
"And does reality match imagination?"
His hands stilled on her stays. She felt him pull back, felt his gaze trace down her body—her bare shoulders, her chemise, the curves that were visible through the thin fabric.
"Reality," he said, his voice wrecked, "puts imagination to shame."
The stays fell. The chemise followed. And Florinda stood before him in the candlelight—for someone had lit candles, she did not remember when—with nothing but her golden hair and the seven freckles across her nose and the wild, desperate certainty that this was exactly where she was meant to be.
Frederick's gaze moved over her like a touch. She watched him catalogue her the way he catalogued everything—the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts, the places where candlelight gilded her skin to gold.
Fourteen, twenty, a hundred—she could almost hear him counting, and the knowledge that he was memorising her, that he would remember this moment the way he remembered gold threads and freckles and stairs, made her breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with cold.
"Your turn." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I believe I am at a disadvantage."
He shed his remaining clothes with military efficiency, and then he was standing before her—naked, scarred, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the aesthetic and everything to do with the way he was looking at her.
She counted him.
Three scars she could see: one on his shoulder (Spain, she guessed), one across his ribs, one disappearing beneath the line of his hip. Strong arms. Broad shoulders. A body made for war that was, at this moment, wholly devoted to her.
"Come here," she breathed.
He came.
* * *
The settee was narrow, but they made it work.
Bodies tangled, skin against skin, Frederick's weight pressing Florinda into the ancient cushions as his mouth traced a path down her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. She arched into him, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders, his back, anywhere she could reach.
"I want—" she began, and did not know how to finish.
"Tell me." His mouth was at her breast now, his tongue tracing patterns that made coherent thought impossible. "Tell me what you want."
"You." The word emerged broken. "All of you. Now."
He raised his head. His eyes were dark, dilated, stripped of all the careful control she had seen in him before. "Are you certain? We can wait. I should court you properly—a year, at least—"
"Nine years." She pulled him back down. "I have waited nine years. I do not wish to wait a moment longer."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a groan. His hand slid down her body, found the heat between her thighs, and Florinda ceased to think in words.
There was only sensation. Only his fingers learning her rhythms, his mouth swallowing her gasps, his body pressing her into the cushions as she climbed toward a peak she had only ever reached alone, thinking of him, imagining this.
Reality was better. Reality was his breath ragged against her ear, his hands trembling with restraint, his voice asking permission even as he gave her everything she wanted.
"Now," she gasped. "Please. Frederick. Now."
He positioned himself. Pressed forward. And Florinda felt herself stretch to accommodate him, felt the brief flash of discomfort give way to fullness, felt her body welcome him the way her heart had welcomed him nine years ago in a dusty stable.
"Florinda." Her name emerged as a prayer. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath shuddering. "I have wanted—I have imagined—but this—"
"I know." She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him deeper. "I know."
He began to move. She moved with him.
Outside, the rain hammered against the tower windows, drowning out the sounds they made—the gasps, the moans, the half-formed words that might have been names or pleas or promises.
Inside, the candles guttered, sending shadows dancing across the walls, across her golden hair spread across the cushions, across his scarred back rising and falling above her.
She felt the peak building again—sharper this time, more urgent. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her breath coming in short gasps as she climbed, climbed, climbed—
"Let go." His voice was wrecked, barely recognisable. "I have you. Let go."
She shattered.
The pleasure broke over her like a wave, stealing her breath, stealing her thoughts, leaving nothing but the overwhelming sensation of him—inside her, around her, everywhere.
She heard herself cry out, felt his arms tighten around her as he followed her over the edge, his own release shuddering through him with a groan that sounded like her name.
Nine years of wanting.
Released in a single, devastating surrender.
* * *
They lay tangled on the narrow settee as the rain continued to fall, their bodies cooling in the tower's chill, neither willing to move.
Florinda traced the scar on his shoulder—a puckered line, white with age—and felt him shiver beneath her touch.
"Salamanca," he said, without her asking. "A French cavalry officer with excellent aim and poor timing."
"And this?" She traced the scar across his ribs.
"Badajoz. I was careless."
"You survived."
"I had reasons to survive." He caught her hand, pressed it to his lips. "I did not know all of them at the time. But I know them now."
She felt tears prick her eyes—ridiculous, after everything, to cry now—and blinked them back.
"Marry me." His voice was quiet but certain.
"You are asking now?" She pushed herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. "When we are both—"
"Naked and compromised beyond any hope of recovery? Yes." His smile was crooked, devastating. "Be my duchess, Florinda. Let me spend the rest of my life counting things that belong to you."
"I refused a man who offered me hedgerows this morning."
"I am offering you Arabians. Better odds, I should think."
She laughed—truly laughed, for the first time in longer than she could remember. "What if you regret this? What if you wake tomorrow and realise—"
"That I have loved you for nine years? That I climbed a tower of thorns in a rainstorm to reach you?
That I have just made love to you on a dusty settee in an unheated room and would do it again in a heartbeat?
" He pulled her down, kissed her soundly.
"That is not the sort of thing one forgets overnight. "
"Yes," she breathed against his mouth. "Yes. I shall marry you. I shall be your duchess. I shall let you count whatever you wish for the rest of our lives."
* * *
He left before dawn, as he had to.
"I must return to Carthedge." He was dressing in the grey light, his torn coat a ruin, his hands wrapped in strips torn from her petticoat. "Only a few miles. I shall send word to London, handle the legal matters, speak to my mother before the servants' gossip reaches her."
"And Lord Ashworth?"
"Lord Ashworth will learn that his fraud has been discovered. He will have the choice to withdraw gracefully or to face public exposure." Frederick's jaw tightened. "I suspect he will choose the former. Men like Ashworth always protect their reputations first."
Florinda rose from the settee, wrapped in a blanket Margot had left on the landing. "And the ball?"
"The ball will become an engagement ball after all." He crossed to her, cupped her face in his bandaged hands. "Just not the engagement anyone expected."
"You shall shock three hundred people."
"I shall shock my mother, which is considerably more terrifying." He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. "But I shall also stand before everyone who matters and declare that I choose you. Openly. Publicly. Without shame or apology."
"Promise me." Her voice cracked. "Promise you will come back."
"I swear it on every letter I have written you. On every gold thread I have counted. On the three miles I shall ride twice over because I am not capable of staying away from you any longer than absolutely necessary." He pressed his forehead to hers. "I shall return before nightfall. I promise."
She unlocked the tower door—the first time she had touched the key in days—and watched him descend the narrow stairs.
"No more locked doors," she called after him.
He paused at the landing, looked back. His smile was brilliant in the grey dawn light.
"No more locked doors."
She stood at the window and watched him mount his horse, ride out across the lawn, disappear into the morning mist toward Carthedge.
Before nightfall, she told herself. He promised.
The rain had stopped. The roses scratched at the window, their thorns dark with his blood.
Florinda watched until he was out of sight, and then she went to find Margot.
She had a ball gown to discuss.